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SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 





















t 



SHADOWS 
OF YESTERDAY 


STORIES FROM 
AN OLD CATALOGUE 


BY 

MARJORIE BOWEN 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE VIPER OF MILAN,” “THE GLEN o’ WEEPING,” 
“ I WILL MAINTAIN,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
681 FIFTH AVENUE 
1916 



Printed in England 



CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION. THE OLD MUSEUM 

I. SIR BASIL AND RUE - 

II. THE TOWN LADY - 

III. GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 

IV. SOPHIA FIELDING - 

V. CANDLELIGHT - 

VI. THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE - 

VII. THE HALF BROTHERS - 

VIII. “ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 

IX. THE SCARLET ROSE - 

X. PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 

XI. CAMILLE ROCHFORT - 

XII. PEARLS ------ 


PAGE 

I 

6 

- 36 

- 57 
82 

104 

- 133 

- 162 

- 185 

- 214 

- 241 

- 265 

- 289 


V 



SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

STORIES FROM AN OLD CATALOGUE 
INTRODUCTION 

THE OLD MUSEUM 

It is a very small museum, if indeed it be worthy 
of that name, and stands in a back street of a little 
Italian town, and is so unimportant to many, per- 
haps to most so uninteresting, that very few dis- 
turb the quiet here, which is like the quiet of the 
cloister or the graveyard. 

Some rich citizen, who had the industry and the 
vanity of the true antiquary, gathered together 
during a long and, probably, idle life all these toys 
and trifles of art and antiquity, and, dying, left 
his collection and his house to his native town, to 
be the property of the people for ever. 

So the old mansion was duly cleared out, the 
collection dutifully arranged in cases and drawers, 
the old catalogue enlarged and altered, and the 
little museum was ready and open. 

That, perhaps, was a hundred years ago. And 
now the old house and the old collection have been 
left behind, almost forgotten in that backwater of a 
long side street, where else there is nothing even 
remotely of interest. 


2 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


If there had been anything of value amidst these 
odds and ends it would by now have been found and 
rescued; but among these ancient treasures there 
is nothing to attract the attention of anyone. 

The door stands always open, and in the hall sits 
a lean and faded porter always asleep. When a 
rare visitor appears he wakes with a start, points 
in a bewildered way up the dark stairs and falls 
asleep again. 

There is no other guardian in the place; a thief 
would have easy chances of stealing, but there is 
nothing worth the taking away. 

The whole house is redolent of dust : dust beyond 
words, not only on the surface of everything, but 
in all nooks and crannies, the dust of a hundred 
years penetrating deep into walls and floors and 
ceiling — a very veil of oblivion descending on what 
is useless and unused, forgotten and dead. 

Some of the furniture remains — a set of Spanish 
chairs with leathern fringes, a wooden bedstead 
with a faded blue tapestry canopy, a writing-desk, 
a bureau, all unpolished, drilled with worm-holes 
and dull with the thick dust. 

They had a ghastly forlorn look, as if they had 
never been used by human beings, but were relics 
of some ghost world of tragedy. 

It is the same with the pictures on the walls, 
these innumerable, dark worthless pictures, huge 
oils in tarnished frames, some with the names of 
great painters attached, most labelled “ unknown.” 
What are they, these bogus Raphaels, and Rubens, 
Van Dyck, and Rembrandt, and those more honest 
daubs that are nameless ? 


THE OLD MUSEUM 


3 


Who painted them, at what time, in what coun- 
try — is it possible that this black hard varnished 
wood and canvas were ever fresh with wet paint ? 

They seem immortal, and as if they had been 
always what they are now — old, mysterious and 
dusty. 

Who were the subjects of all these unknown por- 
traits in pastel and oil that grin or frown from their 
tarnished frames ? 

It is strange to think they ever lived and moved, 
so corpse-like, so unhuman are they in their dusty 
immobility. 

About the rooms stand the cases filled with an 
undisturbed medley of trifles. 

Bones and ornaments from tombs of Egypt, coins 
and shells from savage islands, porcelain and pot- 
tery, chipped and mended, statuettes and minia- 
tures, strings of beads and boxwood carvings, en- 
gravings of long-forgotten events, books on long- 
forgotten themes, incomplete sets of chessmen, worn 
packs of playing cards, old fans, toys, swords, musi- 
cal instruments, cups, plates, daggers, pistols, 
tankards, medals, stones, watches, candlesticks, 
clocks, lamps, riding-whips, wax bas-reliefs, Roman 
mosaics, paste buckles and necklaces, bone combs 
and carvings in coral, wreaths of the thin Etruscan 
gold beaten into the shape of laurel branches, inta- 
glio rings and cameo rings, collars of fine linen heavy 
with a marvellous embroidery and yellow and stiff, 
caskets covered with silk and sewn with figures of 
cavaliers and ladies — such are these treasures, once 
handled by living fingers, once useful and lovely, 
now mere scraps of wood and metal, glass and pot- 


4 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


tery, stuff and lace, all discoloured, dull and mean- 
ingless — piteous neglected relics that should have 
been long ago destroyed or entombed and that, shut 
away here in their dusty cases, seem so remote 
from life and the world that there is about them a 
faint horror. It is always silent in the museum, 
and sad, even when the strong sunlight streams 
through the old-fashioned window and throws the 
colours from the arms of the old antiquary in 
splashes of warm light on the dusty floor, the dusty 
walls, the dusty cases. 

A solitary footstep makes a notable noise, a dis- 
mal creaking of the loosened boards ; a raised voice 
would sound strange here, where the air has been 
so long empty of more than a whisper ; there are a 
green tree and a fountain in the little garden, glimp- 
sing it from the windows, they seem a thing from 
another world. 

There are no words to express the stillness and 
desolation of this place unless they are the two 
words — dust and obilivion — oblivion and dust. 

The catalogue, bound in dry and crackling calf, 
hangs by a dust-rusted cord to the wall in the prin- 
cipal room ; it has never been printed, this is the only 
copy; the neat writing within is almost the colour 
of yellow ochre now; it hangs with the leaves falling 
apart, and a spider has spun an almost impercep- 
tible web from corner to corner. 

Some of the objects are labelled in this same fine 
handwriting, most are not; what little there is to 
know of all must be searched for in the catalogue. 

Yet even this grave and learned compilation is 
evasive — it gives as “ unknown ” the portraits that 


THE OLD MUSEUM 


5 


raise curiosity; it chronicles Raphaels and Rubens 
with an unfaltering faith that cause the veracity of 
all the items entered here to be suspected ; in brief 
it is untrustworthy and had better be left to the 
spider who is making the old covers of use at last. 

Yet if one could look back — beyond the dust, 
beyond the years to the time when all these dead 
things were fresh — when the originals of those por- 
traits moved and worked and laughed, when beer 
was really brewed in those jugs and tea drunk from 
those cups, when those cards were dashed on to 
the playing table, when that sword graced some 
gallant’s thigh, that paste necklace some woman’s 
neck, when that collar was stitched by some indus- 
trious fingers, those coins shook in someone’s 
pocket, and those clocks were wound up and ticked 
in someone’s home — if one could look back to those 
times, might not one find curious stories, sad stories, 
and gay stories attached to these old' worthless 
objects ? — as staring at ashes one may recall the 
flames. 

Blow away the dust, and from the darkness of 
oblivion draw at hazard these tales, each belonging 
to an item in the old catalogue, and to trifles that 
lie mostly huddled together in one neglected case. 

All together now, and covered with one common 
dust — once far separated by years and by distance, 
for scarcely two are of the same epoch or the same 
country. 


I. — SIR BASIL AND RUE 

No. 489 . — A cornelian ring engraved with a woman's 
head, probably antique, brass setting. 

This is how the item is entered in the old cata- 
logue — the ring lies carelessly in the corner of a 
long dusty glass case ; near is a fragment of an Etrus- 
can necklace, the fine filigree work broken into 
shreds; occupying the centre of the case is a shri- 
velled and half unwrapt mummy of a sacred ibis, 
and another object of horror, the dried head of a 
Maori chief with hard painted cheeks and long tufts 
of coarse black hair. 

If anyone should chance to glance here, the 
interest of these ghastly relics would obscure that 
of the cornelian ring, dull under the dust, with the 
setting dirty and tarnished. Yet once it played 
a part in a tale at once romantic and pleasant — once 
it was bright and polished and handled by youth- 
ful fingers, and treasured as an antique fresh from 
the new ploughed vineyards of the Roman cam- 
pagna, though a later judgment considered its pre- 
tensions doubtful, and the label is dubious. 

This is the story of the cornelian ring. 

The date is the date of the one English regency. 
The scene is first in Kent, and the curtain goes up 
6 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


7 

on the figure of a young girl walking along the ter- 
race of a fine old manor-house. 

She was a young girl, not more than twenty, and 
pleasing as any fair Englishwoman of her breed and 
age, slender, erect, self-composed, delicate fea- 
tured, with wide grey eyes more than a little dis- 
contented in expression. 

Her name was Ruth Fairfax, and as she had been 
destined for her cousin’s bride ever since she was 
a little child, and his name was Basil, some fantasy 
had shortened her name into Rue. 

Basil and Rue they had always been as children 
playing together — Basil and Rue at the formal be- 
trothal and during the few months of their position 
as serious lovers. 

And they were Basil and Rue to each other now 
when they wrote to each other — he from London, 
she from Featherstonehaugh Manor-house, which 
she had never left in all her life. 

Nor was she ever intended to leave it — she had 
been bred with that one idea — that she was to be 
the wife of Basil and the Mistress of the Manor. 

Early an orphan, Basil’s mother had brought 
her up, and her not inconsiderable fortune had 
gone in acquiring fresh land round Featherstone- 
haugh, and in improving the property which was 
one day to be hers, which was, in fact, partly 
hers now. 

And she loved the place with an ardent response 
to all the careful training she had received to love 
and revere it, with a keen sense of all the tradition 
it stood for, the fine life it was symbolic of, and she 
asked nothing better than the destiny prepared for 


8 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


her — to reign over Featherstonehaugh as she had 
been taught to reign. 

She looked over the noble sweeps of lawn broken 
by magnificent beech and yew trees, that extended 
to the great iron gates, then glanced up at the house, 
built under the Tudors and turreted, and now 
stately under a sombre June sky. 

Then she skirted the wide terrace and walked 
rapidly and gracefully to the back of the mansion. 

There a simple garden brought its sweetness to 
the very arched doorways of the dwelling; there 
was no exotic flower, only those blooms that had 
flourished here almost as long as the Featherstone- 
haughs themselves — large Canterbury bells of a 
pale shell pink, Jacob’s Ladder, purple and white 
sweet-williams, bushes of lavender, pink poppies, 
azure cornflowers, and the tall spikes of white lilies 
yet in bud: 

And behind this border grew the roses, now in 
full glory, heavy crimson blooms amid deep crimson 
foliages, roses with sulphur hearts, blush roses with 
sea-green leaves, and rambling roses of white and 
crimson, minute and multitudinous among the fine 
trails of green. 

Among these roses walked a tall lady, snipping 
the faded flowers into a rush basket that she carried 
on her arm. 

She wore a shawl over her gown of black and white 
striped taffetas, and a frilled muslin cap fastened 
under her chin. 

At the girl’s approach she turned towards her a 
fine, thin and determined face. 

Rue came and stood beside her; neither spoke. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


9 


There was something ominous in this silence, as was 
something ominous in the grey sky and chill wind 
of this June day. 

The elder lady used her scissors vigorously, and 
the girl watched with the intentness of preoccupa- 
tion the heavy heads of the roses fall on to the moist 
ground. 

Presently she stooped and began picking them 
up and placing them in the basket on her aunt’s 
arm. 

Lady Featherstonehaugh glanced at her serious 
face and spoke. 

“You heard from Basil this morning ?” 

Rue answered as if replying to a challenge. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I was not told ?” 

“ I was awaiting an opportunity of telling you, 
Aunt Ellen.” 

“ You have it now.” 

The lady dropped the scissors into the basket and 
stood facing her niece, who had flushed at the cold 
tones directed to her so haughtily. But her tone 
also was resolute and calm as she replied : 

“ It is time Basil returned.” 

“ I know that.” Lady Featherstonehaugh spoke 
frankly but with the same coldness. 

“ He must come back.” 

Rue pronounced the words with energy ; the skirt 
of the dark close gown was ruffled by the wind, her 
fair hair blown across her brow; she looked very 
resolute, and, in a delicate manner, strong. 

The elder woman eyed her keenly. 

“ Can you make him come back ?” 


10 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Rue answered slowly. 

“ No — nor can you, Aunt Ellen;” then, reluc- 
tantly facing a contemptuous truth, “ He cares no 
more for either of us — nor for Featherstonehaugh.” 

Basil’s mother stood as one outraged; she was 
speechless at this tearing aside of the veil she had 
hung before reality, at this ruthless levelling of the 
defences her love had built round her son. 

Looking at her Rue was stirred into passion. 

‘ ‘ Please let us help each other ! Please let me 
tell you how it is — he gambles.” 

Rigid his mother answered. 

“ I know — all young men do.” 

Rue was unflinching. 

“He plays high — and loses.” 

“ We can afford some losses.” 

“ Not these losses.” 

Lady Featherstonehaugh shivered and glanced 
up at the clouded sky. 

“ What has he written to you ?” she demanded 
on a note of surrender. 

“ That he loses — and worse than money.” 

“ He stakes?” 

Rue’s eyes were dark ; she answered with a certain 
fierceness. 

“ He begins to stake Featherstonehaugh.” 

The elder lady set her lips and her brow in frown- 
ing lines ; she stood erect before the blow of a horri- 
ble suspicion confirmed. Just for a moment she 
was on the defensive, excuses, even denials, on her 
lips, the life-long spirit of devotion refusing to be 
utterly quenched, even at this moment, which was 
but the climax of long weeks of trial and suspense. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE n 

Then, under the straight glance of the girl, a 
glance which was singularly fearless and ardent, she 
surrendered. 

u Yes, Rue,” she said, and her voice sounded old 
and uncontrolled. “You are quite right — some- 
thing must be done.” 

But there was a hopeless sound in her words, as 
if she said, “What can two women do against a man, 
who is at once their lord and their beloved ?” 

Rue took her arm very gently and relieved her 
of the basket of dead roses, and the two erect, yet 
pitiful, figures passed from under the shadow of the 
grey sky into the shadow of the ancient house. 

In the tapestried drawing-room, proudly kept 
unchanged through all changes of taste and mode, 
they faced each other and their trouble. 

“ It is Lord Muskerry,” said Rue. 

Lady Featherstonehaugh bowed her head. 

“ I have realised that,” she answered. 

Her manner was quite meek, the manner of one 
towards another who has shown the courage he 
himself has lacked. 

“ That man,” continued the girl with emphasis, 
“ has Basil by the throat — he will get every 
penny from him — and every rood of Feather- 
stonehaugh.” 

Basil’s mother was dumb; she was hardly pre- 
pared for this extreme facing of the situation. Basil 
was Basil — to be adored and reverenced — “ my 
^on ” and “ master of Featherstonehaugh,” yet the 
energy and decision of the younger woman silenced 
this tradition and this pride. Deep in her stalwart 
heart Basil’s mother w r as afraid ; she kept her hands 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


I 2 

tight locked in her lap, and looked at Rue with an 
intensity that grew piteous. 

Rue looked at the window ; the clouds had broken 
now and a fine rain fell on the swaying flowers ; the 
horizon began to glow a luminous colour of pearl, 
and in rifts in the clouds shafts of light gleamed 
against which the rain looked like a veil of 
diamonds. 

“ It is Lord Muskerry,” repeated the girl; her 
figure in the blue gown, straight, tight and showing 
the limbs, the elegant feet in the white stockings 
and black sandals looked incongruous against the 
old massive oak chair built to frame ruff and wimple, 
stomacher and farthingale. 

“ He has been in the hands of Lord Muskerry,” 
she added, “ ever since he went to London — ’twas 
his first friend — his ruin.” 

“ It is with Lord -Muskerry he plays ?” the ques- 
tion came reluctantly. 

“ He himself admits it,” replied Rue; with scorn 
she quoted her lover’s letter, “ ‘ Playing with my 
Lord Muskerry I have been unfortunate — I staked 
and lost some of the Haugh Woods.’ That is what 
he said.” 

” The Haugh Woods !” muttered Lady Feather- 
stonehaugh. 

Rue proceeded with her indictment. 

“ Betty Morton has written the same thing to 
me. She says her husband hears of Basil at all the 
night clubs — that he is in the foremost of every 
folly, every devilry in town — this has been going 
on for more than a year, Aunt Ellen.” 

“ For a year and three months — and two days, 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


13 


dear.” She had the date of her son’s departure 
engraved in her heart. 

“ And during that time he has not once thought 
to visit us — his return is ever postponed — and our 
marriage is never referred to.” 

She turned her eyes on her aunt; she was very 
moved, the fair face was flushed — she was thinking 
of more than Basil, she was thinking of Feather- 
stonehaugh. 

“ Are we going to wait here while he squanders 
and stakes the estate ?” 

The elder lady looked at her in silence; she had 
no suggestion to make; she was so trained to inac- 
tion, as the only dignified course for a woman, that 
she could think of no alternative; her married life 
had been an admirable training in patience; the 
late Sir Basil had had so many faults that she had 
hardly been able to suppress a sigh of relief at his 
demise ; but he had not gambled beyond the ordinary 
trifling play of a gentleman. This was a new dis- 
aster — and threatened ruin — horrors impossible to 
contemplate. 

“ He could never gamble Featherstonehaugh,” 
she broke out suddenly. 

“ He has begun,” replied Rue. “ This Lord 
Muskerry will suck him dry — do you think that 
he will be content with a portion of Haugh Woods ? 
He will play for the whole estate.” 

“ Impossible 1” 

“ It is very possible — larger estates than this 
have been lost this way.” 

“ Who is he, this Muskerry ?” 

Rue’s clear eyes flashed hate. 


14 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Who can he be ? A greedy adventurer — a 
penniless peer, a fribble of fashion — a rook on the 
outlook for such a pigeon as Basil ! Who else ?” 

“ Is there no one,” asked Lady Featherstone- 
haugh desperately, “ who can save Basil ? One 
of his father’s friends ?” 

“ Would he listen to them ? You know he 
would not.” 

” There must be someone.” 

“ I know of no one.” 

“ But something must be done.” 

The girl raised her hand impulsively and put 
back her soft hair. 

“ We must go to London,” she said. 

Amazement flushed the other lady’s face. 

“ We ? I have not been to town since Basil’s 
father died.” 

“ We must go now.” 

“ Where?” 

“ To London — to the town house — to stay with 
Basil to — to fight Lord Muskerry.” 

Hope began to light the clouds of Lady Feather- 
stonehaugh’s bewilderment. 

After all why should they not break through the 
tradition that as females they should wait 
decorously in the country till their lord pleased to 
return. 

“ I believe that you are right, my dear,” she 
said, and flushed. “ Basil certainly needs us, 
and as he will not come to us, we must go 
to him.” 

Rue was thinking more of Featherstonehaugh 
than of Basil. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


IS 


Before one rood of the manor fell into the hands 
of strangers she was prepared to make a valiant 
fight. 

Bending together with interlocked hands the 
women took counsel. 

It ended by Basil’s mother drawing the girl 
to her bosom and crying over her. Rue did not 
cry at all. 

Within the week they were ready to start. 
Sir Basil had had but a day’s notice of their arrival; 
his cousin did not wish to give him the chance to 
write putting them off with any excuse either 
specious or laboured. 

They did not expect the warmest of welcomes; 
of late their correspondence had been cold and 
tinged with reproach; he would be sure to suspect 
their motive in this sudden unparalleled visit. 

He did indeed mark his displeasure by being 
out when they arrived at the town mansion. 

This disturbed Rue very little. She took command 
of the household, established the new servants 
she had brought with her, then took the coach 
and went shopping with her aunt in the Haymarket 
and the adjacent fashionable streets. 

She was not indifferent to the trifle of clothes; 
she had never looked a country miss, and now she 
ordered the finest gowns she had ever worn with 
surety and taste. 

Lady Featherstonehaugh approved; she grew 
younger and less formal in this atmosphere; she 
almost enjoyed the constant spectacle of the 
changing crowd, but Rue wished that she was back 
at Featherstonehaugh. 


1 6 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

Nothing distracted her from the one set purpose 
in her mind. 

That night Sir Basil returned so late that both 
the ladies were abed. 

The next morning his mother came into Rue’s 
room. 

The girl lay yet in the heavy old bed, shadowed 
by folds of silk curtains. 

“ What, have you seen him ?” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ So early?” 

“ He was up early — I heard him come down — 
his voice on the stairs — I hurried down — he was 
going for a ride ” 

“ To avoid us !” 

“ He says he rides every morning.” Lady 
Feathers tonehaugh still strove to defend him. 

“ What did he say ?” 

“ Oh — greetings — surprise — he behaved well — 
asked for you ” 

Rue was still unmollified. 

“ Could he do less ?” 

She slipped from the bed and stood in her long 
ruffled gown gazing at her aunt. 

“ You do not look pleased,” she said keenly. 

“ He was changed ?” 

Basil’s mother was startled. 

11 How did you guess ?” 

“ I thought that he would be — lately his letters 
have changed.” 

For a little they were silent; the elder woman 
sat on the edge of the bed. 

“ We shall never do anything with him,” she 
said sadly. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


1 7 

“ He is — so changed as all that ?” demanded 
Rue frowning. 

“ I am afraid so.” 

Rue said nothing more; she braced herself to 
meet this Basil, so changed that his mother spoke 
of it — changed indeed he must be ! 

His betrothed had found him easy to deal with 
in the past, bright, laughing, good-humoured, 
malleable — too malleable. Now another and sinister 
influence had moulded him. 

Rue felt bitter towards London, very bitter 
towards Lord Muskerry. 

If Basil had remained at Featherstonehaugh he 
would not have changed, but have remained the 
same dear lord, the centre of their adoration and 
interest. 

That day she did not see him ; she armed herself 
with patience, surrounded herself with such friends 
as there were in London, found out what she could 
of the formidable Lord Muskerry. 

She found that she had been mistaken in her 
estimation of him; he was no fop of fashion, no 
starving adventurer, but a man of wealth and 
distinction; he had a reputation as a diplomat — 
would soon be in the Government, so much even 
his enemies admitted. Rake and gambler he might 
be, but this had never hindered his success nor 
smirched his reputation; he was spoken of as one 
destined to a notable career — compared to Boling- 
broke, was a wit, an author — a man certainly 
distinguished. 

Rue hated him the more. 

She had a capacity for hatred as some have for 


1 8 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

love; often she was surprised herself at the quick 
passion of her feelings against some person or 
object who wounded or vexed her; and Lord 
Muskerry had done both. 

For he had taken from her what was most 
peculiarly hers — her lover, and was on the way 
to take from her her fortune and her home. 

The first meeting with Basil was one of perfect 
courtesy. 

He behaved with a frankness that was the most 
perfect guard to his thoughts and feelings, and 
her manner had always been one of easy reserve, 
even towards him. 

But while the two exchanged commonplaces 
in the great drawing-room of the town mansion, 
she asking after the London season, he after 
Featherstonehaugh, they were keenly regarding 
each other. 

It was almost the keenness of enemies — certainly 
it was a keenness free from all illusion and almost 
from kindness. 

He could not but approve her bloom, the glow 
of wind and sun in her cheeks, the clearness of 
her eyes, the abundant glossy hair looped round 
the high amber comb; her figure, not concealed 
by the close gown of tight silk, was too full for 
his taste, a freedom in her movements seemed 
boldness, her feet seemed large, though finely 
shaped, her hands were browned on the backs, 
he noticed the scars of rose thorns on her fingers — 
worse than all, she had now an air too composed, 
even too commanding for one who had become 
used to the adoration and thousand veiled flatteries 
of town ladies. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


19 


He hesitated in his judgment, sometimes con- 
sidering her a beautiful woman, sometimes as 
one without charm. 

At least she was not the country miss, awkward 
and shy — it was equally certain that she was not 
a fine lady adept in the art of fascination. 

In Rue’s judgment there had been no hesitancy; 
even before their greeting hands had parted, after 
the first alert glance she had said to herself — ■“ He 
will not do.” 

As they sat side by side on the long yellow 
settee this first swift verdict of hers was con- 
firmed. 

His mother had said that he was changed. To 
Rue’s quicker perception he had not changed but 
matured; she realised, with a cruel pang, that 
all the faults she saw in him now were always 
there, latent but potent — his charm had become 
affectation, his weakness, before unconscious, now 
on guard, was veiled by an air of obstinacy. He 
was now no longer afraid of disregarding emotions 
he had been awed into holding sacred, nor ashamed 
to own his love of folly; he spoke with a shrug of 
his mother, with a sneer of Featherstonehaugh ; 
his shallowness very completely aped the gentleman 
a la mode. His face had altered; the rosy fresh- 
ness was changed into a thick pallor, becoming 
but unhealthy, the fullness of the lips and chin 
was emphasised, the eyes were heavy lidded; he 
wore the extreme fashion, and carried himself 
with the air of a man who gives too much attention 
to his dress. 

“ When are you returning home ?” asked Rue — 


20 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


she used the last word with meaning; she saw 
that his vanity resented it. 

“ Have you come to fetch me?” he parried. 
“ Like a school dame after a truant ?” 

She considered her reply. 

“ Well, perhaps,” she said slowly. 

He made a movement that he could not divest 
of impatience. 

“ This is my mother !” he exclaimed. 

“ Nay, it was I, Basil.” 

“ You ?” The enmity in his glance was un- 
mistakable. 

11 I want you to come back to Featherstone- 
haugh.” There was no flattery in her tones. 

He spoke lightly to cover his vexation. 

“ Do not be provincial, Rue. Men do not stay 
on their estates nowadays. London is the only 
place for a man of position.” 

“ What will you do in London ?” 

“ Muskerry has promised to get me a Govern- 
ment place.” 

“ And Featherstonehaugh ?” 

“ My dear !” His tone was a protest against 
her insistence. “ The place has a very capable 
steward.” 

She locked her hands about her knees and her 
eyes were dark with earnestness. 

“You cannot afford this life, Basil.” 

He blushed from the tight folds of his muslin 
cravat to the curls of his carefully arranged hair. 

“ You are gambling,” she proceeded. “ You 
are beginning to sell the estate.” 

He curbed the haughty answer he desired to 


21 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 

give; she was his cousin, would be his wife, and had 
a large money interest in his property, and she 
was not displeasing to him, nor was he in love 
with any other woman. 

Also considerations and a weak desire to have 
a confidant moved him to take her reproofs humbly. 

In town one must gamble ” — his defence was 
voluble — “ you do not understand that yet, Rue. 
Muskerry is a great player — it is done at all the 
clubs; I have my way to make and cannot hang 
back. Muskerry is a patron worth having, he 
could send me to an Embassy in Europe. I 
thought you would like that, the life of foreign 
courts — as for the land, it is easily bought back — 
and the mortgages ” 

“ Mortgages ?” she cried; she had not thought 
of that. 

Reluctantly, yet with a certain relief, he gave 
her the truth; yes, the estates were mortgaged — 
in part — every gentleman’s estates were, it meant 
nothing; yes, he had been to the Jews, it was 
incredible how money went in town, but a man 
had to, there was no making a career else. Why, 
she did not realise the state of things; everyone 
from the Regent downwards was in debt, it was 
the way things were done; the only alternative 
was to rot in the country, and he couldn’t do that — 
didn’t she understand ? 

Rue understood; her calmness reassured him; 
he left her affectionately and promised to take her 
riding in his white and gilt phaeton that afternoon. 

Rue sat for a long while silent on the satin 
settee. 


22 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


She knew all that she needed to know now; 
this one interview had told her everything. 

Gambling, debts, mortgages — these words indi- 
cated, like signposts, a wilderness of folly. 

How far things had gone she did not need to 
know ; it was obviously but a question of how long 
it took for Featherstonehaugh to slip through 
Basil's loose fingers. 

Rue wept in sheer passion; her lover was gone. 
The boy of the past she might have loved, the man 
of the present never, and with her lover her future 
had vanished too — small chance had she now of 
reigning in Featherstonehaugh as from her child- 
hood she had been taught to reign. 

She went to Lady Featherstonehaugh, as one 
going to seek comfort from an ally, but Basil had 
been before her; he had spoken to his mother, 
made excuses, told half-truths, she was again 
wholly his; Rue felt herself shut out; here was 
one who would always adore Basil and listen to 
no evil of him; all would come right, she said, 
Basil was as other young men; let them wait 
without anxiety — after all, women should not 
interfere. 

Rue felt her blood flaming ; like a poisoned dart 
her rage went out to Lord Muskerry — she wished 
that she could go and seek him — women were so 
chained. . . . 

Basil did not come to take her out that after- 
noon; in the evening she saw him intoxicated; 
she knew that this was merely fashion, that no man 
was exempt, yet it increased her sense of his care- 
lessness and folly. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


23 


Next day he dined at home; his mother, the 
decorous hostess, delighted to receive her son’s 
fashionable guests. 

Rue found herself in the window embrasure 
talking to a gentleman very quietly dressed in 
grey cloth. 

“You are new to London ?” he asked her. 

I understand London,” she replied. 

He looked at her with interest; he liked her 
carriage, her air of fearlessness, her beautiful 
arms and shoulders — her gown of heavy white 
satin with borders of gold embroidery and gold 
cords under the bust showed no country taste; 
her robustness, which had repelled Basil, attracted 
him — it was like the perfume of clover, the fragrance 
of lavender and honey to one to whom these things 
had the charm of variety. 

“ It is a little difficult to understand London,” 
he answered. 

“ I know,” she answered him; and looked at 
him carefully and quite frankly. 

Dark he was and slender, of a type new to her, 
aquiline in feature, with large and powerful eyes, 
an air of great ease and perfect mastery of himself. 

He seemed amused and interested in others and 
absolutely self-assured ; she thought there was 
more than a little of the devil in him — suddenly, 
on a quick intuition she said, “ You are Lord 
Muskerry !” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ did you not hear my name 
when we were presented ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then — how did you guess ?” 


24 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ I do not know.” 

They looked at one another steadily, astonished 
at the interest each had for each. 

He had never considered Basil Featherstone- 
haugh with any particular attention, nor gone 
beyond his first summary of him as another 
youngster from the country more or less foolish 
and more or less amusing. 

That his estates could not probably stand the 
strain of the rate he was living at, Lord Muskerry 
guessed, but that had been no matter of his; he 
knew too what Rue did not know, that Basil 
was a born gambler, difficult, if not impossible, 
to save. 

Now he was interested in the man because of the 
woman ; this girl was not the type he had expected 
the young squire’s betrothed to be; he admired 
her — the kind of woman to help a man, he 
thought, but not such a man as Basil Feather- 
stonehaugh. 

“ Are you long for town ?” he asked. 

“ It depends upon the success I meet with,” 
answered Rue ; she continued to give him her 
keen attention; she thought of him as the most 
dangerous enemy, as such he held her with an 
endless interest. 

He probed the frankness that pleased him. 

“ If you succeed ?” 

She flushed a little. 

“ Succeed in persuading Basil to return home,” 
she answered bluntly. “ We country folk, my 
lord, do well to keep away from London.” 

He looked amused. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 25 

“ A rare sentiment and one that does credit to 
your intelligence, Miss Fairfax.” 

She continued, speaking rapidly, as if explaining 
her position and her motives: she had a desire 
to make herself very clear with this man. 

“ Here, Sir Basil is nothing — in Featherstone- 
haugh he is something; he will never be dis- 
tinguished in London, in Featherstonehaugh he 
is always a great man.” 

“You love the place,” said Lord Muskerry 
keenly. 

“ It is,” she answered proudly, “ my home and 
my kingdom.” 

He was speaking to her seriously as if they had 
long known each other. 

“You realise he is entangled ?” 

“ Yes.” 

She dropped her glance and her lips trembled, 
for she wondered if it were much worse than she 
knew. 

“ I think,” said Lord Muskerry carelessly, “ that 
he is much embarrassed.” 

Rue suddenly turned on him, beating her foot 
on the floor and speaking in a low accent of intense 
rage. 

“ This is your doing, my lord !” she flung at 
him. “ You have made this poor youth’s ruin 
your amusement — and now your boast !” 

Lord Muskerry was sincerely astonished; he 
laughed in her face. 

“ You mistake. Sir Basil is a born gambler, 
he plays with any who will take his stakes ” 

“ You are his tempter,” returned she unappeased. 


26 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at her 
with narrowed eyes. 

“ Make the request, Miss Fairfax, and I will 
never play with Sir Basil again.” 

But her pride was in arms; vanity and loyalty 
to Basil combined to lead her into a foolish action. 

She defied instead of conciliating. 

“ Basil is no gambler, I know him. I do not 
need your lordship’s assistance.” 

The dark devil that had so often borne down 
his opponents leapt to his eyes. 

“ Would you challenge me, madam?” he asked 
very soft. 

“I do not need your lordship’s assistance,” 
she repeated; she told herself that this fire in her 
heart was hatred of the man, driving her into 
wildness. 

“ You do not know Sir Basil,” he said with an 
air of mocking. 

He held out his firm handsome right hand, 
which bore one ring, a cornelian in a brass 
setting. 

“ You see this,” he continued, “ an almost 
worthless thing though a pretty antique — but set 
in brass as I bought it in Italy ?” 

“Well?” said she, breathing a little heavily, 
but with eyes very courageously on his dark 
amused face. 

“ Well, Sir Basil would stake, when he is in his 
madness of play, all Featherstonehaugh against 
this ” 

The thing was too monstrous, she laughed it 
away. 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 27 

You are at liberty, my lord, to endeavour to 
obtain Featherstonehaugh at so low a rate.” 

He bowed. 

Rue turned and hastened away; she was begin- 
ning to lose her composure ; certainly this man had 
a power, a force; she could not help comparing 
him with Basil, but angrily checked that dis- 
loyalty. 

She felt lonely in the great house, lonely in the 
crowd of strangers, and, for all the proud front 
she had shown to Lord Muskerry, utterly un- 
prepared as to how to cope with the situation; 
she believed the best of Basil, but at the best he 
was changed, even his adoring mother had ad- 
mitted that — weak he was, too, and vain and 
obstinate, and what was her influence over him ? — 
she could not be sure even that he still regarded 
her as his friend. 

When the reception was over she went again 
to his mother. 

“ Lord Muskerry says Basil is a gambler born,” 
she said abruptly. 

“ These fashionable men use the term as a 
compliment,” was the reply; there was beginning 
to be considerable strain of feeling between the 
two women; the presence of Basil had entirely 
lulled his mother; she could not now bear to hear 
anything against him ; he seemed to her to be lead- 
ing the life of any young man of quality in town, 
and she was quite satisfied with his careless 
assurance that the estates were safe. 

“ The entanglement is more than we know of,” 
continued Rue; “ you cannot, will not realise it.” 


28 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ My dear, you listen to gossip,” replied the 
elder lady; “ if you are going to make yourself 
unhappy about Basil, let us go back to Feather- 
stonehaugh.” 

“ And wait for the day when he comes to us 
with empty pockets,” cried Rue, “ telling us that 
no stick nor stone on the estate is any longer 
ours ?” 

“ This talk,” said the elder lady, “is an insult 
to my son.” 

Rue left her without another word; she felt 
hardened against both the Featherstonehaughs. 

Lord Muskerry and some other gentlemen dined 
with Basil that evening; afterwards, as was usual, 
they passed into the card-room ; the girl reluctantly 
mounting the wide staircase to the decorum of the 
drawing-room gave a backward look in time to 
catch a glance from my lord. 

A glance of amusement, she thought, at a country 
miss who had defied him. 

She looked from him to Basil ; her betrothed was 
sober as any gentleman there, she took some 
comfort from that. 

Long after Lady Featherstonehaugh had gone 
to bed and Rue was in her chamber, with her 
maid dismissed, the men remained in the card- 
room. 

Several times she went out on to the stairs 
and leaning over the white baluster listened; the 
door was opened and shut occasionally as the 
servant carried in fresh bottles and glasses; she 
heard the voices of the gamblers, not raised, but 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


29 


sharp with excitement ; once she heard Lord 
Muskerry laugh. 

One o’clock came and she had not undressed; 
all her candles, save one on the dressing-table, had 
guttered out unheeded ; this last vague light 
showed her pale and haggard in her coral red 
silk, a string of garnet gleamed dark on her pale 
throat, and a high gold comb sparkled in her 
bright hair. 

When she moved she felt a strange pain in her 
head and limbs, a feverish coldness which was a 
heat and yet a shiver. 

Her complete healthiness was startled at these 
symptoms of weakness; she was forced to admit 
that this was the mind affecting the body, forced 
to realise how she had suffered during those hours 
that she had waited here, her thoughts following 
every incident, her imagination picturing every 
movement that was taking place in the card- 
room — a room she was fast beginning to regard 
as fatal. 

She had seldom been awake, never been up and 
dressed, so late; she looked from the window; the 
silence and darkness of the city was worse than 
the silence and darkness of the country; the air 
was cold — the uncharitable cold of an English 
summer. 

She took from the press an Indian shawl, Basil’s 
one present to her since her arrival, and put it 
round her shoulders, then, without any formed 
resolution, she opened the door and descended the 
stairs. 


30 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


The decoration of the house was white, showing 
now a pale opal colour in the subdued light from 
the silk-shrouded, crystal-hung lamps on the 
stairway. 

Rue hated this coldness — the tears rose in her 
eyes as she thought of Featherstonehaugh house, 
that rich palace of her dreams. 

For a moment she paused before the card-room 
door, conscious that her limbs were heavy, that 
her head was giddy, conscious of the serene classical 
lines of the moulding in the panels before her — 
then she opened the door and stood before the 
flushed party of men intent on their play. 

Her eyes were only for one face; in looking 
for Basil Featherstonehaugh she forgot all confusion 
and weakness. 

He was close to her, leaning across the slender 
table, a dice-box of goat's hair bound in silver 
grasped in his right hand. 

The multitudinous folds of his cravat were 
loosened and the billows of muslin fell in disorder 
over his bosom; his hair was pushed out of the 
fashionable arrangement of curls and hung awry 
on his damp forehead, his face looked quite fallen 
and old and ill; with every second that the girl 
looked at him she knew that what Lord Muskerry 
had told her was true; even her inexperience 
could not fail to see that here was a man absorbed 
by the intense and overwhelming passion of the 
born gambler. 

She went straight up to him; the other men in 
the room did not exist for her at that moment. 

But they were all staring at her; none of them 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 31 

had paid much attention to Miss Fairfax either at 
the reception or the dinner, but now her sudden 
and strange appearance, her vivid dress, bright 
shawl, and unusual pallor that set off a beauty 
hitherto unnoticed, set all eyes on her; play was 
stopped; all, with tacit consent, waited for her 
to declare herself. 

But her thoughts were only for Basil, and he 
was the only man who paid no attention to her. 

She called his name in a tone in which she had 
never uttered it before. 

“ Basil !” 

He looked up; his dazed eyes showed neither 
surprise nor resentment at her presence. 

“ Basil l” 

She laid her hand on his shoulder. 

He shook himself like a man trying to shake off 
sleep. 

“ Why, you should be in bed,” he said, and his 
gaze turned again to the dice-box. 

Rue looked from him across the table — she saw 
that his opponent was Lord Muskerry, who sur- 
veyed her with a brilliant glance. 

She drew her breath sharply, her hand tumbled 
from her bosom, letting slip the Indian shawl and 
revealing her pale throat and shoulders with the 
necklace of dark lustrous stones. 

The other guests left their own play to gather 
about these three; one or two advised Basil to 
desist; they saw tragedy in the tired face of the 
woman. 

“You have played high enough for to-night, 
Sir Basil.” 


32 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He took no heed of these words a friend whispered 
in his ear. 

Lord Muskerry heard them and repeated them 
aloud. 

“ Best play no more to-night, Sir Basil, lest you 
lose further.” 

The young man lifted his head, roused at last. 

“ What do you mean ? To cheat me of my 
revenge ? I must and will have my revenge — 
luck will turn.” 

“ I’ll play no more,” said Lord Muskerry, but 
he did not move from the table. 

“ Why do you say that ?” demanded Basil, 
his eyes ugly. 

“ Because I always beat you — in games of hazard 
as in games of skill.” 

“ A good reason,” said Rue. u Leave it now, 
Basil — cards and dice — for to-night.” 

He looked up at her and laughed. 

“You have come to bring me luck, eh, Rue ? 
To see me win what I have lost ?” He turned 
keenly to the other man. “ My lord, my lord, I 
will play you any stakes you wish — to prove my 
luck.” 

Lord Muskerry took the brass-mounted ring 
from his finger and placed it on the table. 

“ That against all you possess, that is the only 
stake I play to-night.” 

The company drew closer round Basil ; he picked 
up the ring and laughed unsteadily. 

“ A fine intaglio — I always admired it ” 

“ Against all that you still possess of Feather- 
stonehaugh — your town house, your horses ” 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


33 


I am sure of my luck,” interrupted Basil. 

Rue Fairfax came closer to him; the candle-light 
threw out her brilliant figure against the dark 
garments and white cravats of the men. 

“You are not sane to-night, Basil,” she said 
in a voice rough with distress. “ You do not know 
what you are doing.” 

“ I am perfectly sober, my dear,” he cut in 
with impatience. 

She clasped her hands with agonised entreaty. 

“ Basil, consider me ” 

He looked her up and down. 

“ I’ll add you to the list,” he said with an eager 
laugh. “ What do you say to that, Lord Muskerry, 
the hand of this lady ?” 

“ Done,” said my lord quietly. 

Rue leapt from the card-table as swiftly as if 
he had struck her from her balance. 

An elderly man caught her arm kindly. 

" You must not think of him at all, Miss Fairfax 
— a born gambler — a reckless gambler, I fear 
quite worthless ” 

Rue did not hear the words, she was listening 
to the clatter of the dice, then the smart smack 
of them on the table. 

Basil had thrown first ; he pushed his chair 
back, red in the face. 

“ Did I not tell you that my luck had changed ?” 
— he had thrown the five and six. 

My lord cast his throw in silence. 

An instant’s silence held the company, then 
from each man broke a soft subdued exclamation. 

The last throw showed the double six. 


34 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Chance was always against you,” remarked 
my lord; he picked up the ring and rose. 

Basil sat dumb and foolish; his usual sickly 
pallor had returned, he drummed on the table 
sharply. 

“ I had a purpose of my own in this gamble,” 
said my lord very easy and grand, “ which was 
not to ruin Sir Basil. Gentlemen, bear witness, 
he remains as he was — master of all that for which 
he played ” — here my lord looked at Rue, who 
stood with her head down — “ since the only item 
I value among Sir Basil’s possessions was that 
one which I may not take.” 

“ Which is that ?” asked the young man stupidly, 
ashamed and bewildered by this turn. 

“ The last you offered,” said my lord. 

Rue looked up at that; she was flushed and 
breathing hard, and looked as beautiful as a country 
rose. 

“ If you mean my hand,” she said, “ it is yours; 
you may be a devil, as I make no doubt you are, 
but you are not a coward or a fool.” 

Before them all she put her hand in his and he 
slipped the brass ring on her marriage finger. 

“ You and I together, madam,” he answered, 
“ will make our way in the world.” 

Sir Thomas Laurence left a portrait of Ruth, 
Lady Muskerry, in a red velvet gown; her robust 
beauty suited his facile brush, her frank face 
looks from the canvas radiant with health and 
success. 

Later he sketched Sir Basil, an old man at thirty, 
ruined and weary; this drawing, however, was 


SIR BASIL AND RUE 


35 

never finished, but remains in the artist’s sketch- 
book. 

And in this case in the old museum chance has 
thrown the cornelian ring, which was never mounted 
in gold after all. 


II.— THE TOWN LADY 


No. 258 . — An old English Jug of Slip Ware Time 
of Charles II. 

In a certain solitary cottage in the village of 
Chalfont St. Giles a girl stood watching with the 
utmost anxiety and trepidation the landscape of 
glade and beech forest that spread verdant and 
golden in the serene afternoon light. 

No other house was in sight and no other human 
being, the stillness was broken only by the chatter 
of the swallows that had built their mud nests under 
the eaves. 

The girl stood in the porch, sheltered by the sweet 
load of honeysuckle the light lattice supported and 
which, past the fullness of summer, shed rose-and- 
gold petals on her hair and shoulders. 

Her face was pale and drawn past any look of 
youthful softness, the hand that grasped the little 
riding- whip showed the muscles white and taut. 
She had bitten her under-lip until it was bleeding 
and swollen, and her eyes swept the country-side 
with a look painful in its intensity. For her lover 
had failed. 

Long hours had passed since he should have met 
her here — at this, his own rendezvous. 

36 


THE TOWN LADY 


37 


And neither he, nor any message, nor any human 
being had come to relieve Lucinda Marston's vigil 
— a vigil that was slowly becoming an agony. 

For this was no ordinary appointment for love's 
amusement. 

For Lucinda it was to have been the casting of 
the die, the supreme surrender. 

She had renounced all for him — home, parents, 
friends, position, honour. 

“ Good-bye,” she had said to the places dear to 
her, resolutely she had put aside all weak thoughts 
of regret and remorse. 

All her worldly possessions were in the small bun- 
dle that lay in the room behind her ; her horse stood 
ready, fresh and waiting. 

Her lover had not come. 

And she could not go back. 

The letter she had left behind her — the letter that 
would shame her father and break her mother's 
heart — made that impossible. 

She could never face them again, the kind hearts 
who only yesterday had seemed one with hers. She 
was shut out for ever from the dear home that yes- 
terday had seemed part of herself. Again and 
again she reviewed the extent of her sacrifice. 

And she had been glad to make it, proud to bear 
even disgrace for his sake, for truly she loved him 
without stint. 

Loved him so that it had seemed a great, almost 
a noble thing to cast her honour and her name under 
his feet. 

He was not free; an old unloved wife, his enemy 
and his evil wisher, bound him; when this chain 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


38 

was removed he would marry Lucinda ; mean- 
while she was glad to come to him, with no 
more guarantee than his vows, and no sterner 
bond than love. 

Their love had been a secret; he was of noble 
birth and lived mostly in London ; she had seen him 
first when he was on a visit to her neighbour and 
cousin, Sir Peter Bamfield. 

For three months of riotous happiness they had 
contrived to meet for stolen snatches of joy in 
garden and field, wood and way-side, then he had 
returned to London, only to return again and live 
hidden where he might see her when she went 
abroad. 

This sweetness was too perilous to endure; she 
came to the moment when she must renounce all 
or risk all, her father was pressing a marriage with 
Sir Peter, her mother was growing curious as to her 
silence, her flushes, her sudden tears. 

Her lover pressed her to leave all for him — they 
would go abroad and live solitary until he was free. 

She agreed. 

He must return to London to make arrangements 
for this flight, before his departure he told her of 
this rendezvous. 

A cottage of his, romantic and solitary, not above 
five miles from her own door; she had often seen 
the place on their stolen drives together; he said 
that he had bought it because she had admired the 
rural beauty of the situation, the charm of the tan- 
gled garden where the roses rioted unpruned and 
unrestrained. 

Now she hated the place, it seemed to her horrible 


THE TOWN LADY 


39 

in its remoteness, as enclosed as a tomb, as distant 
from love and happiness as a corner of Hell. 

Again and again she took out the letter in which 
he had enclosed the key and told her the day and 
the hour — “ Wednesday, at ten of the clock . ” She 
had made no mistake — how had it been possible to 
make a mistake in this, when she had counted every 
hour, every minute, centred her whole life round 
this date ? 

The richer light of waning afternoon began to fall 
over the beechy slopes. Lucinda turned back into 
the cottage. 

The porch opened straight into a brick-floored 
kitchen with whitewashed walls, this into a tiny 
parlour at the back, from which a flight of open 
stairs led to the two attic bedrooms above. Lu- 
cinda when she first arrived, high spirited, had no- 
ticed the order and freshness of the place and 
thought it truly charming. 

Blue check curtains hung at the leaded panes of 
the bow window, on the high shelf above the open 
hearth and on the oak dresser stood bowls, jugs and 
plates of pottery and vessels of pewter, copper pans 
and kettles were arranged on the spotless hearth. 

There were wand-bottom chairs, a table for 
dining, a brass bracket clock and a pewter lamp, 
a press full of linen, and on the window-sill basil and 
lavender growing in pots. 

The back room was furnished with greater luxury ; 
a wool carpet covered the floor, an old settle was 
filled with blue and red silk cushions, a screen of 
needlework stood before the fireplace, a mirror in 
an ebony frame hung above the couch; on a side 


40 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


table were some elegant satin boxes, a writing-desk 
held several articles in silver and tortoise-shell. 

Lucinda, entering the house afresh, was no longer 
pleased with it; the details that had struck her 
before as charming, now seemed sinister. 

Whom did these things belong to, and who had 
arranged them ? 

Who kept them fresh and neat ? Had he so 
bought the house ? But these were not things 
belonging to any ordinary peasant. 

She wandered in her distress from one room to 
the other, touching the various objects and notic- 
ing their brightness. 

Who had lived here ? 

She began to loathe it all, to shudder at these 
neat silent rooms, to wonder why he had made this 
rendezvous — were there not dear spots beloved by 
them in the fragrant beech-woods under the open 
sky. 

The impulse took her to mount the humble wind- 
ing stairs ; she had not yet seen the upper part. 

She ascended, but reluctantly, afraid of the 
empty room below, and the empty room above, 
most afraid of the silence. 

But she kept saying to herself, “ When I return 
to the porch he will be there — I will pass the time 
thus, and when I return he will be waiting.’ * 

The stairway opened directly into the upper 
room; it was protected by a light rail and a low 
gate only. 

Lucinda opened, closed the gate and looked 
round. 

It was an attic with a sloping roof, furnished as 


THE TOWN LADY 


4i 


a bedchamber ; the walls were hung with cheap but 
pleasant wool hangings, dark rush mats were on 
the floor, the low truckle bed was covered with a 
blue linsey quilt, a cream-coloured ewer and basin 
stood on an oak stand for washing. 

Lucinda passed into the next attic; it seemed to 
her a woman’s room. 

The window looked out on the front, over the 
wide view which she had been gazing at from the 
porch, and which had grown so ominous during 
the ordeal of waiting. 

On the wall facing the window was a long mirror 
in a frame of gilded wood. Lucinda turned and 
surveyed her reflection. 

She was surprised that she was not more changed ; 
almost had she expected to see herself withered. 

Colourless and grave, but the same Lucinda of 
the delicate, frail beauty, and the wide eyes and 
the soft reddish hair, who had yesterday laughed 
round the table with her brothers and sisters, and 
felt her mother’s hand on her locks. 

The same Lucinda, in the drab riding-habit she 
had put on in the early hours of that morning, with 
the lace cravat cunningly arranged to show the 
round throat, and the knot of pink sarcenet ribbon 
in the loose curls. 

She turned swiftly from the mirror and stood with 
her back to it, looking at the room. 

The bed, though low and without a canopy, was 
covered with a quilt of dull blue silk, the fine em- 
broidery of the pillows showed where this was 
turned back. 

A Persian carpet was on the floor, of finer texture 


42 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

than that which Lucinda had had in her own cham- 
ber at home, there were two low chairs and two 
faldstools covered in blue and yellow silk, a low 
chest, like an ancient marriage coffer, a little table 
with candlestick, snuffers, and clock. 

Lucinda wondered for whom this room had been 
prepared — who had lived here in this solitary and 
romantic spot. 

Whoever it was, she felt their presence ; it seemed 
as if someone spied on her with hostile eyes. 

She was turning to the door when she noticed a 
little book on the shelf below the mirror ; she picked 
it up, though with a little shiver, as of repulsion 
or apprehension. 

It was a prayer-book bound in yellow velvet with 
silver clasps. 

Lucinda opened it ; the pressed petals of a white 
rose fell from between the pages. 

On the fly-leaf was written — •“ to my deare love ” ; 
the writing was unversed — and straggling — a wo- 
man's surely. 

Lucinda put back the book. 

The sun had left the upper windows now; the 
serene desolation of evening was begining to fall 
over the lonely landscape ; Lucinda returned down- 
stairs ; the front door stood open as she had left it ; 
on the table lay her black feathered hat, which she 
had taken off, to ease her head, hours ago. 

He had not come. 

All her fond cheatings of herself had not availed, 
the house was desolate, as she had known it would 
be. 

She sat down by the table and took her head in 


THE TOWN LADY 


43 

her hands; she had not eaten since last night and 
physically she was faint. 

Where should they not have been now ? In 
London, that city she had never seen but heard so 
much of from him, hidden in those delectable rooms 
in St. Paul’s Churchyard he had told her of, where 
no one would think of looking for them — the lodg- 
ing above the hosier’s shop with a view of the 
Cathedral church. 

And they would be alone, at last, after all the 
anxiety and restraint and waiting. 

But he had not come. 

Her courage was equal to going on alone to find 
him, but she had no clue to his whereabouts in the 
unknown city; he had always written to her from 
inns and taverns. 

She looked up at the little brass clock ; but she 
did not need to see the time marked there, the pas- 
sage of the hours was too deeply graven into her 
mind. 

As she sat staring at the timepiece, the conviction 
entered her heart that he must be dead. 

Living, he would never have failed her; there 
could be no doubt as to that. 

She was sure he was dead, she wondered in what 
way he had died. 

Then she wondered what she was going to do. 

Though so near home, she could never return, 
nor were they likely to seek her here ; she had said 
in her letter that the object of her flight was London. 

The fantastic thought occurred to her of going into 
the little front bedchamber, of lying on the blue 
covered bed and waiting till she died — how long did 


44 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

a broken heart take to kill one healthy and 
strong ? 

But she did not move. 

The last sunshine was receding from the land- 
scape, and a dullness filled the little room ; a shadow 
blocked the open door and a woman stood before 
Lucinda. 

The girl sat motionless, her hands, dropped from 
her brow, encircling each other on the table. 

The stranger came slowly into the room ; she was 
splendidly though carelessly dressed in a gown and 
loose jacket of gold satin, trimmed with heavy gold 
embroidery, and a soft cap of black velvet; her 
hands were bare and she wore yellow leather shoes 
with square toes and wide stiff bows of silk. This 
strange appearance left Lucinda breathless and 
overwhelmed with a deeper sense of horror. 

The lady had pearls round her neck and in her 
ears, she was beautiful with a kind of beauty of 
which Lucinda had never dreamed, so different was 
it from anything that had ever entered her world 
— a fair beauty, cold and yet voluptuous, weary and 
yet eager. 

She seated herself in the wand chair by the fire- 
place, looking most strange in these incongruous 
surroundings. 

“ You must be Luciftda Marston," she said. 
“ Why do you look so frightened ?" 

“You came so quietly that you startled me/' 
answered Lucinda. “ I am Lucinda Marston — 
what shall I call you ?" 

“You may call me the town lady," replied the 
stranger, “ and nothing else for the moment." 


THE TOWN LADY 


45 

“Why are you here?” asked Lucinda, facing all 
her terrors with this direct question. 

The other surveyed her with some interest. 

“You have kept your courage,” she remarked. 

How long have you been waiting for him ?” 

Lucinda rose. 

“ Please tell me what you know about me,” she 
said. 

The town lady nodded. 

“You are behaving well. You have been wait- 
ing for him, Anthony Denton, since this morning; 
you were to elope together to London and after- 
wards abroad — or so you thought.” 

Lucinda walked to and fro without any glance 
or answer. 

“You are one of the daughters of a country 
squire, a few months ago you met your lover; he 
stayed at a neighbouring house with other nobles 
from town.” 

She paused, as if exhausted by so many words, 
and added : 

“ Is not this so ?” 

“ It is correct,” said Lucinda, still walking about. 
“ What interest is it to you ?” 

“ Some interest.” 

“ You are not his wife ?” 

Lucinda stopped in her pacing as she spoke. 

The town lady laughed-; there was something 
vulgar and ugly about her laughter. 

“ No; oh no !” 

Lucinda, still in the same attitude of grave and 
tense attention, asked another question. 

“ Will you tell me if he is alive ?” 


4 6 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

The other looked at her startled. 

“ My God, why should you say that ?” 

Lucinda answered simply. 

“ I could not believe that if he were alive he would 
fail me.” 

The other stared, as if abashed. 

“ He is alive,” she said quietly after a moment’s 
pause. 

Lucinda began walking up and down the red 
bricks again; she gave no sign of discomposure be- 
yond her white gravity. 

“ Come,” added the other woman not unkindly, 
“ I’ll warrant you have not eaten all day ?” 

Lucinda did not reply. 

The town lady rose and went to the cupboard 
beneath the dresser, and opening the wide doors 
showed a supply of food, meat, bread, cheese, fruit, 
and wine. 

Lucinda did not notice this touch of the ludicrous 
in her tragedy, that she had been starving near 
plenty, but only observed the ease and familiarity 
with which the brilliant stranger moved about the 
room, finding a tablecloth, forks and glasses, and 
laying out the supper on the board. 

“You will eat with me,” she said when her pre- 
parations were complete. 

She looked at Lucinda with challenging eyes, and 
the girl’s spirits rose to answer. 

He was alive and he loved her; of the first she 
was assured, and of the second she had never 
doubted. 

Why, then, should she not be brave and meet 
this strange creature on her own grounds ? 


THE TOWN LADY 


47 

And certainly she was hungry and the food fresh 
and tempting, and deftly arranged. 

I will eat with you,” she replied with a new fire 
behind her seriousness, “ and afterwards you shall 
explain to me.” 

They sat down opposite to each other; as the 
light was beginning to be uncertain, the town lady 
lit the lamp and stood it between them. 

Lucinda ate. 

She was surprised to find how dry her throat was, 
and how parched her lips; the food once tasted, 
caused her disgust. 

Her hostess noticed this and poured wine for her. 

“ I do not drink wine/’ said Lucinda; she noticed 
it was a rich vintage coming heavy from the bottle 
and having a luscious flavour of fruit and scent. 

“ You would have drunk if he had come," said 
the lady, looking at her through half-closed eyes. 

“ No," answered Lucinda, “ we should not have 
stayed here.” 

“Ah?” The other seemed incredulous. “So 
you think, of course,” she added. 

“ Whose house is this ?” asked Lucinda suddenly. 

“ Lord Anthony’s.” 

“ I know,” she corrected herself, remembering 
that he had bought it to please her. “ I mean 
whose was it — and to whom do these things belong ? 

“To him, it has always been his.” 

“ Always ?” 

The other waved her hand. 

* “ For years.” 

“ Everything is his?” Lucinda was thinking of 
the prayer-book upstairs. 


48 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Everything, I suppose.” 

The town lady answered with a certain careless- 
ness; she was eating with delicacy yet with force 
and energy; Lucinda swallowed bread and fruit. 

“Is there some water ?” she asked. 

“ Here none, but near by is a well.” 

“ I will fetch some.” 

The town lady put out her hand to stay her. 

“ No, it suits my humour to wait on you.” 

She rose, and taking a jug of cream-coloured 
pottery from the dresser passed out into the even- 
ing, her vivid dress gleamed in the twilight as she 
went by the window. 

Lucinda thought of her home, for ever lost, of the 
future so clouded and even terrible, of the fantasy 
of the present situation. 

“ But he loves me,” she said half aloud, so that 
the sound of the words might give her fortitude, 
and she clasped her hand over her bosom where the 
slender packet of letters, which was all she had of 
his, was concealed beneath her riding bodice. 

The town lady returned, the wet jug in her hands, 
she poured out the water into a thick glass beaker. 

Lucinda drank eagerly, and again, until the little 
jug was drained. 

Then she rose and went to the window and looked 
out upon the dusk. 

The other trimmed the lamp, took off her cap 
and shook out her hair. 

Then taking a mirror from the collection of 
golden articles that hung by little chains to her 
waist, she studied her face which was so carefully 
tinted and powdered, though Lucinda, who had 


THE TOWN LADY 


49 

never seen a woman’s face tampered with, had not 
noticed it. 

“ I suppose that we must spend the night here,” 
she remarked with an air of indifference. 

Lucinda did not look at her. 

“ Why ?” she asked. “ Can you not leave the 
way you came ?” 

The town lady replied with the same air of indif- 
ference, which seemed to mask some deep and 
inner purpose; she dropped the mirror and keenly 
regarded the girl’s rigid figure. 

“ My coach is at the turn of the road, my people 
put up at the inn.” 

Lucinda felt her hostility; her own went out to 
meet it. 

“ Why did you come ?” 

She turned now and the lamplight showed every 
line of her courageous and innocent face. 

“ Why did you come ?” she repeated. 

The other woman rested her elbows on the table 
and stared at her with frank insolence. 

“ To see you,” she said, smiling. 

“ How did you know I was here ?” 

“ That is easy — I saw your letter promising to 
come.” 

Now Lucinda winced. 

“ My letter !” 

“ Yes,” the town lady enjoyed her distress. 
“ And I wanted to see you — to see what held his 
fancy now ! You are pretty, as pretty as I was 
once; well born, too, and gentle. I am sorry for 
you, Mistress Marston.” 

Lucinda smfled now. 


4 


So 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ You need not be sorry for me. You have come 
here to mystify and, I think, insult me, but it does 
not matter. ” 

“ Why ?” the other rose. 

“ Because he loves me,” said Lucinda. 

“ Are you so sure of that ?” 

“ I am sure.” 

The blue eyes of the town lady darkened with 
anger and possibly despair. 

“ Perhaps he does,” she replied slowly, “ such 
love as his is easily aroused. And easily cooled, 
my young Madam.” 

“ Tell me,” said Lucinda steadily, “ why he did 
not come ?” 

“ Because I prevented him,” was the answer. 
“ I made it impossible for him to come. And then 
I resolved to come myself — to see you and, if I liked 
you, to save you. 

“ Save me ?” said Lucinda. 

“ Yes, child. Because you are a little country 
fool and do not understand.” 

Lucinda came to the table. 

“ I am, as you say, a little country fool, but I 
understand very well that he loves me.” 

The town lady answered impatiently. 

“ How obstinate you are ! See, I admit that he 
loves you — to-day — but to-morrow ?” 

“ Who can promise for to-morrow ?” said Lu- 
cinda. “ I take love as it comes to me. To-day 
is mine.” 

“ And what of yesterday — and the other woman ? M 

” That is not for me to think of.” 

The lady sighed. 


THE TOWN LADY 


“ You have courage. I think you are sincere. I 
will believe that of you. I will save you — send you 
back to your quiet home and your honourable life . J ' 

“ I shall never go back/’ said Lucinda. 

“ When you know the truth you will.” 

Lucinda turned her face away. 

“You mean to tell me of his wife ? I know.” 

“ His wife does not count,” returned the town 
lady. “ She was broken and put aside long ago — 
she has her priests and her prayers. I came to 
talk to you of the man himself.” 

“You can tell me nothing of him that will change 
me,” said Lucinda. 

“ Yes, I can. I can tell you this, the house where 
we now stand is his retreat for his passing light o’ 
love when it is his fancy to be rustic and simple, to 
shelter his intrigues when he goes wooing in dis- 
guise.” 

Lucinda believed it, had she not found something 
sinister in the place . . . and the prayer-book 
upstairs. . . . 

She stood motionless, leaning forward a little, 
the tips of her fingers resting on the table. 

“ You think,” continued the other, “ that he 
would have taken you abroad. You would never 
have left these walls till he was tired of you, or if 
you were a favourite, you would have gone to ruffle 
it for a brief space in town.” 

Lucinda moistened her lips. 

“ What are you trying to tell me ? What is the 
good of any of this talk ?” she asked. 

“ Child, child, I have good right to hate you, but 
I swear I am sorry for you.” 


52 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Madam, Lord Anthony ” 

“ Your lover is not Lord Anthony.” 

“ Ah?” 

“ You believe it ?” 

“ It matters so little.” 

“ Girl, you are infatuate. Tell me, you know 
nothing of him ?” 

“ Nothing but what he has told me. It is 
enough, Madam.” 

She was watching the town lady very closely; 
she had only one object in standing there listening 
to her, and that was to find out the whereabouts of 
her lover. # 

Somehow this woman had come between them, 
but she would find him ; she glanced at the window 
and the rising moon. 

All she had heard might be lies as it might be the 
truth — which did not seem to matter. . . . 

Where was he waiting for her ? 

“No, you know nothing of him,” repeated the 
town lady. 

Lucinda hardly heard her words; her own im- 
patience could not any longer be curbed; she came 
directly to her point. 

“ Where is he now ? Will you tell me where he 
is?” 

“ That you may go to him ?” 

“ Yes.” 

The other woman laughed. 

“ I am here to prevent that, you silly child.” 

Lucinda looked at her sternly. 

“ I suppose he once loved you, and you are jea- 
lous of me.” 


THE TOWN LADY 


S3 

A distorted smile contracted the lady’s features. 

“ Yes, he once loved me.” 

u That is in the past,” said Lucinda. 

11 Child, child !” cried the town lady a little 
wildly, “ keep your youth and your innocence — it 
is not worth while losing them for what that man 
can offer !” 

“ I must experience that for myself,” replied 
Lucinda. “ I cannot, Madam, take your word for 
it.” 

“ I know.” 

li And I will know too, out of my own know- 
ledge,” cried Lucinda. 11 Nothing can make me 
deny my love !” 

" Nothing?” 

They stood facing, challenging and defying each 
other. 

The older woman pulled a case from the objects 
hanging at her waist. 

A case of silver filigree. 

She snapped it open to show a painting on ivory ; 
it was a portrait of a gentleman. 

Lucinda’s wild eyes saw that the face was the 
dark sad face of her lover. 

“ It is he,” she said. " Well ? Well, Madam ?” 

The town lady, holding the miniature out in a 
shaking hand, bent nearer across the table. 

11 It is the King !” she whispered. 

Lucinda still stood erect, her nostrils dilated and 
her lips compressed. 

She noticed the details of the painting, the star 
and ribbon, the baton, the crown on the cushions 
in the background, the Royal monogram C.R. 


54 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

twisted into the delicate gold frame — it was the 
King. 

“ Well,” she murmured. “ Well ” 

“ It is the King !” repeated the town lady. 

“ And you ?” flashed Lucinda. 

” I am Lady Castlemaine.” 

Lucinda shook her head. 

11 I have never heard of you.” 

The other laughed bitterly. 

11 You would soon have heard of me in London.” 

Lucinda stared without speaking ; she showed no 
emotion; it seemed as if she had been rendered 
senseless by what she had heard, yet her expression 
remained composed and courageous. 

11 I was once what you are, child,” continued 
Lady Castlemaine, ” and I loved him too — quite 
as romantically as you do 1 I have paid. In what 
bitterness, what humiliation, what disgust, what 
weariness I could not tell you. Only hear this 
conclusion — it is not worth the price. And I was 
one of the fortunate ones — there were others — like 
you, the fancies of an idle day — what are they now ? 
You would shield your eyes from them.” 

Lucinda dropped her head. 

Lady Castlemaine flushed with the energy of her 
speech and with a certain satisfaction on seeing the 
girl drawn together before her words, like a flower 
beaten by the winds. 

“ Save yourself — and thank God fasting that you 
can save yourself. Keep what you have — your 
home, your innocence, your dreams.” 

Lucinda drew further away. 

“ One thing,” she said thickly. “ Would he have 
come, if he could ?” 


THE TOWN LADY 


55 

“ I made that impossible — a council arranged for 
to-day prevented him, he sent a messenger to bid 
you wait, whom I intercepted; you see how frank 
I am with you, I admit he cares — while it lasts.” 

“ While it lasts !” murmured Lucinda. 

“ You will hate me,” said Lady Castlemaine, 
” but afterwards you will be grateful, oh, very 
grateful ; when you are safe at home with your good 
husband and your children, and your fine sewing, 
with your comfortable home about you, in the pos- 
session of peace and honour — then you will remem- 
ber this moment and thank me.” 

Lucinda fell back before her until her shoulders 
were against the wall. 

Lady Castlemaine smiled; there was the same 
bitterness in it as in her laughter; Lucinda, with 
head drooping, did not see this smile. 

“ Go home, child,” she said, “ the moon holds.”' 

At this Lucinda looked up. 

A broad shaft of moonlight fell across the sill ; the 
refulgence of it mingled with and was lost in the 
lamplight. 

Lucinda came to the table and picked up her hat 
and riding stock from the end not covered by the 
cloth. 

Slowly she turned and left the room ; she did not 
close the door, and the moonlight entered and 
touched the gorgeous figure of Lady Castlemaine 
who stood breathing heavily with her effort and her 
success. 

“ I have saved her,” she thought. “ Saved her 1 
— saved myself I Who would have been secure 
when that face ruled the Court ?” 


56 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


She went out slowly into the night and down the 
hillside path that led to the road where her coach 
waited. 

Before her was Lucinda Marston, leading her 
horse; when both reached the road, the town lady 
spoke. 

“You have not said ‘ farewell.’ ” 

Lucinda mounted and gathered up the reins. 

“ We shall meet again, Madam,” she answered. 

Something in the girl’s demeanour frightened 
Lady Castlemaine. 

“ Where are you going ?” she cried. 

Lucinda looked down; her pallor in the moon- 
light made her face look as if it had been carved 
from pearl. 

“ Where are you going ?” repeated the King’s 
favourite roughly. 

Lucinda leant down and lightly flicked her whip 
across the angry, distorted, upturned countenance 
of my lady. 

“ To Whitehall !” she cried in a tone of unspeak- 
able triumph. “ To the King !” 

And she turned her horse towards the London 
road. 


III.— GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 


No. 104 . — A casket covered in blue silk and sewn 
with a floral design of seed pearls ; very worn 
and faded , many of the pearls missing . V enetian , 
eighteenth century. 

The wedding feast was nearly over. 

The bride sat apart in her own chamber, even 
her maids dismissed, and listened to the last harps 
and violins whose sad music echoed through the 
old palazzo and quivered across the lagoon. 

She sat in the dusk which obscured her splendour ; 
her brocaded gown was unlaced and showed her 
shoulders and bosom rising from loose lace and 
lawn; her shoes were off and her stockings were of 
silk so fine as to show every line in her feet — 
which were crossed on a footstool of rose-coloured 
damask. 

Most of the powder had been shaken from her 
hair which fell over her shoulders in fine curls 
of gold; she wore a chaplet, and necklace and 
earrings of pearls ; the dimly seen furniture showed 
richly in the shadows, bouquets of roses, lilies, 
and carnations were on the dressing-table, on the 
chairs and on the floor. 

On the bride’s lap were trails of syringa, verbena, 
57 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


58 

and orange and lemon, from her hair fell the blooms 
of the bridal coronal and mingled with these. 

Once or twice she stretched herself and yawned, 
her body moving softly in the silken clothes. 

Could anyone have flashed a candle or a lamp 
through the gloom and revealed that head and 
face adorned with flowers and jewels, he would 
have seen a wicked countenance look up at him 
from the shadows, a countenance as firm in out- 
line and as soft in colour as tinted alabaster, a 
low, smooth brow, beautiful, hard eyes, scornful 
nostrils to a straight, small nose, a beautiful 
curved, greedy mouth, a smooth white chin. 

So she sat, Giuditta Grimaldi, while her bride- 
groom entertained the last guests, sat and mused 
in the darkness. 

And waited for her lover. 

Waited patiently with languid self-composure, 
and did not trouble to listen for the chiming of 
the little silver clock out of the darkness. 

Men had never kept Giuditta waiting; she was 
so sure of all of them; this security made her 
disdainful; she had never cared for any of her 
lovers save for this man for whom she waited on 
her wedding night. 

When she heard the splash of oars beneath her 
window she did not move, when she heard his feet 
on the stone facade, climbing up to her, she did 
not turn her head. 

Only when his figure appeared on the balcony 
did she move, and gathering all her blossoms 
to her bosom, come, breathing sweetness, to the 
open window. 


GIUDITTA ’S WEDDING NIGHT 59 

Darkness concealed him; the infant moon was 
but enough to cast a sparkle on the dark waters 
of the canal and show the dark outlines of the 
crowded, silent palaces against the pale darkness 
of the sky. 

“ So Giuditta is married, ” he said. 

She leant on his heart ; her flowers, falling 
through careless fingers, fell on the balcony and 
through the iron railings on to the waters below. 

“ They would marry me,” she said, “ as well 
he as another. How silent the city is to- 
night.” 

“ The plague is spreading.” 

“ It is not near us ?” 

“ Nay, the other end of Venice, but the mere 
name frightens people.” 

He did not offer to caress her; his cold love- 
making had always served to increase her passion, 
she took him by the shoulder and drawing his 
head down, almost roughly kissed his cheek. 

“ Listen,” her words came quickly, yet softly, 
like an accompaniment to the harp and violins, 
“ we have never had more than a few moments 
together, you and I — I have played with you long 
enough, I love you, Astorre, I love you — I can be 
free to-night — take me, take me away ” 

Her surrender was almost fierce; the man who 
held her shuddered. 

“ I meant to ask you for to-night — your wedding 
night,” he said, whispering through her hair that 
curtained his ear, “ to-night I will show you how 
I love you, Giuditta, Giuditta ” 

She smiled ; she hated her husband and his 


6o 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


family, it pleased her to insult them; voluptuously, 
playing with her own pleasure, she passed her 
little hand slowly over the face of her lover and 
let it rest on his lips to receive his kiss. 

“ You will come with me in my gondola to- 
night ?” he whispered. 

“ Yes.” 

“ But he?” 

“ Leave that to me — how shall I get down to 
you ?” 

“ I have a rope ladder— you will be safe with 
me.” 

“ And before dawn you will bring me back ?” 

“You shall* come back,” he said, “ when you 
wish.” 

The music ceased. 

Giuditta drew softly away and tiptoed back into 
the room. 

Feeling her way to the dressing-table she found 
a box that she knew by the silk surface and the 
raised design of seed pearls. 

Opening this she drew out a little package. 

Swiftly and with a delicate touch she found a 
goblet of wine, which she had placed carefully on 
the little table by the window. 

Into this she dropped the contents of the package, 
a white powder that fell heavily and quickly 
dissolved. 

With this still in her hand she unlocked the door, 
listened, and hearing footsteps retreated behind 
the heavy folds of the silk bed curtain. 

Her husband entered. 

“ Dark — dark ?” he said. 


GIUDITTA ’S WEDDING NIGHT 6 1 

“ I am abed/’ answered Giuditta from the 
curtains, “ I was weary.’ ’ 

The Marchese paused; he was not sure of his 
bride nor of his own fortune in having married a 
great beauty; the feast had left him depressed, 
a heavy weight hung about his heart. 

“ Where are your candles, Giuditta ?” he asked. 

She put her head down so that the sound of 
her voice came from the pillow. 

“ Leave the candles, my eyes are tired.” 

Carefully in the darkness she was holding 
upright the goblet, holding it steadily so that the 
liquid should not spill. 

She heard him coming towards her; he moved 
the curtains and she saw his dark shape between 
her and the dimness of the window. 

She laughed, and the laughter enticed him; he 
bent down, peering for her through the dark. 

Noiselessly she sat erect on the bed, gently and 
accurately she held the glass to his lips. 

“ Drink this to our wedding — it is fine Greek 
wine; I have been waiting for you to drink with 
me.” 

He took the glass from her, she heard the rim 
clink against his teeth. 

“ Giuditta ” 

His hand felt for her blindly; she evaded him, 
slipping easily into the room. 

The Marchese sat on the edge of the bed. 

“ Giuditta ” 

His voice was low and held a dull note of accusa- 
tion; she watched the dark bulk of his figure 
slip sideways. 


62 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


She turned and supported him so that he should 
make no noise in falling. 

Gently she let him slide to the ground. 

He lay there motionless. 

She could see the white patches made by his 
wrist ruffles and the lace at his bosom. 

Cautiously she waited, standing over the drugged 
man, then she went again to her dressing-table 
and the blue silk box, and took out strings of 
jewels which she fastened round her neck and waist 
and wrists. 

Then she found her slippers by the chair where 
she had been sitting, and feeling along the couch 
found a cloak which she cast over her shoulders. 

Laughing under her breath, she came out on to 
the balcony. 

The night was serene and melancholy. 

Black were the palaces rising against the sk}^ 
black the shadows they cast into the waters of the 
canals, remote were the stars, and as remote 
seemed the little yellow lights that flamed up here 
and there in distant windows. 

Giuditta clung to her lover. 

He turned from where he had been leaning over 
the iron railing. 

“ Ah, you are ready ?” 

“ He sleeps — the poppy-seed is swift.” 

“ Sleeps he already ? You have used more 
than poppy-seed.” 

“ That other drug they gave me, too — he fell 
like a dead man.” 

“ Would you have cared if he had been dead, 
my Giuditta ?” 


GIUDITTA ’S WEDDING NIGHT 


63 


She laughed again. 

“ Why should I care ?” 

“ You care for me ?” 

“ I have told you.” 

” Will you come now ?” 

“ Take me away.” 

She shivered when he showed her the rope ladder 
hanging over the balcony, but she climbed over 
the iron work without assistance. 

With her shoes under one arm and her skirts 
gathered under the other, the beautiful Giuditta 
descended into the darkness. 

The rope ladder was held taut, the gondolier 
received her in his arms and she sank into the 
cushions of the light, swaying boat. 

Breathing heavily, she sat silent, watching the 
dark ripples the feeble lamp at the prow showed 
beating on the rocking gondola. 

The palazzo towered so far above her it seemed 
as if she was at the bottom of a well; all these 
great buildings overwhelmed the frail boat with 
their heavy shadows. 

When he joined her she gave a little sigh of 
gladness; the boat shot away out on to the canal. 

Giuditta looked up at the open window of her 
bridal chamber, and a sense of danger touched her 
hard heart. 

But she had managed intrigues as perilous as 
this before — only the fact that this time she was 
in love unnerved her courage. 

She leant forward. 

“ Where are we going ?” 

“ Home.” 


64 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

He said the word quickly and quietly out of the 
darkness. 

“ Your home ?” 

“ Yes.” 

She moved luxuriously on the cushions and 
looked up at the stars which were so low and 
brilliant it seemed as if every minute they would 
fall in a shower on the dark city. 

The gondola sped out into the Grand Canal; 
there were few lights in the windows and those few 
were dim, not the bright flame of festivals. 

Only here and there lanterns hung on the moor- 
ing poles outside the palaces. 

The state barges rocked at anchor by the broad 
stone steps ; in this city of music there was no music 
to-night. 

“ How melancholy,” said Giuditta. 

It was a melancholy that pleased her, as it 
rendered the more exquisite the contrast of her 
own happiness in being with the man whom she 
loved, her pleasure in being engaged on this 
delicious adventure on her wedding night. 

They turned from the sea and the islands and 
towards the Rialto. 

“ How silent,” said Giuditta. 

She liked this silence which seemed to make the 
world hers to fill with her own thoughts of love, 
not a breath intruded on her reveries; her passion 
could dominate the night undisturbed; she wished 
that they might move indefinitely between these 
dark palaces over the dark water and under the 
vivid stars. 

They passed a shrine near the bridge ; the 


GIUDITTA ’S WEDDING NIGHT 65 

Madonna holding the Child in an alcove in the 
wall of a palace. 

A feeble lamp showed her dull blue and pink 
gown and the placid face of the Child. 

Giuditta felt sorry for the Madonna who sat 
holding her Babe all day and all night, and never 
came down to row over the lagoons. 

How still it is,” she whispered. 

“ The plague,” said Astorre. 

They were passing under the Rialto, in complete 
darkness. 

Giuditta wished that he had not used that word — 
“ the plague.” 

“ This morning I saw many houses marked with 
the red cross,” continued Astorre, “ and many 
pale faces looking from upper windows for 
assistance.” 

“ And no one went ?” 

“ The priests or the nuns. But there are not 
enough. The people die so fast, the black gondo- 
las are laden to the water edge, and there are 
no more coffins in the city. ,, 

“ Why do you tell me this ?” asked Giuditta. 
“ We should not be abroad.” 

“ Where I take you is safe from infection. You 
are not afraid ?” 

She laughed. 

“ Have I proved myself a coward ?” 

She took his right hand in both of hers and drew 
it down to her bosom. 

He looked at her; she could see the pale oval 
of his face, nothing more; the darkness began to 
tease her, it was like a veil between them. 


5 


66 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Take me into the light,” she whispered, “ and 
you will see how I am adorned for you.” 

“For me !” he repeated the words in a strange 
tone. “ Do you remember when you loved 
Rosario ?” he added abruptly. 

“ Rosario,” she murmured the name lazily, 
playing with the memory it evoked. 

“ My brother.” 

“ Oh, I remember — did you think I had for- 
gotten ? But you are mistaken, I never cared for 
him.” 

“ He loved you.” 

“ I know.” 

She laughed, not vexed at this conversation; 
it pleased her to remember the men who had 
loved her, and it pleased her to think Astorre was 
jealous. 

“ He loved you,” repeated the man thought- 
fully. 

“ Well ?” 

“ He broke his heart for you.” 

“ Did he?” 

“ You know it.” 

“ There have been so many,” smiled Giuditta. 
“ And this was — last year. I sent him away after 
I met you.” 

“You played with him for three months.” 

“ He was a pretty gentleman and adored me 
in good faith.” 

“ He forsook Rosina for you.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ You know that, also.” 

“ I had forgotten.” 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 67 

“ She loved him.” 

“ But he loved only me. Poor Rosina !” 
Giuditta laughed again. 

“ And he forsook her for you. They were 
betrothed.” 

“ Were they ?” 

“ The marriage day fixed.” 

“ Yes ?” 

“ I suppose it amused you to part them and then 
fling him aside ?” 

She released his hand and caressed it softly as 
she answered. 

“ I suppose so. But that is in the past, nothing 
amuses me now but to be with you. Is it not as 
if we had wings and flew between water and 
sky ?” 

“ To what goal do we travel, you and I, O 
Giuditta ?” 

“ To what goal ! The future is dark, like the 
night 1” 

“ Dark indeed.” 

” I cannot dream what my life will be. I have 
never loved before.” 

“ Love is powerful.” 

“ Too powerful,” she shuddered; “ it disturbs 
me. I wish I did not love.” 

“ Why, Giuditta, why ?” 

“ Because I know not where it will lead me — I 
feel as if it would ruin my life and even cause my 
death.” 

“ Love is like that. I also am in the talons of 
love which drives me to anything — even perhaps to 
crime.” 


68 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

She shivered with joy to hear him say this. 

“ You think of my husband ?” 

Astorre was silent. 

They had turned off the Grand Canal and entered 
one smaller and almost totally dark, where the 
water lapped at weed-hung steps and the rust of 
gratings of lower windows. 

“ Suppose you killed him,” murmured Giuditta; 
“ such things have been done for a woman.” 

“ Yes, murder has been done for a woman.” 

She pressed close to him. 

“ You — could you do that ?” 

He answered strongly. 

“ Yes, Giuditta.” 

The warm arms from which cloak and sleeves 
had fallen, encircled him. 

She laid her cheek on his shoulder. 

“ You would kill for love ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Without pity or hesitation ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah, you know how to love ! You are like 
what a lover should be.” 

“ I know how to love, Giuditta — I have given 
my life for love.” 

“ We shall be happy, my dearest, we shall be 
happy !” 

They passed a church now; either side was a 
wall covered with roses; the yellow light from the 
wide open door showed these flowers and the circular 
wet steps and the bowed forms of the worshippers ; 
for a second, too, it showed the small flushed face 
of Giuditta and the jewels on her bosom. 


GIUDITTA ’S WEDDING NIGHT 69 

The darkness engulfed them again. 

“ Do you ever pray, Giuditta ?” 

I prayed once.” 

“ For what boon ?” 

“ After I had first seen you, beloved, I prayed 
you might love me.” 

He answered fiercely. 

I prayed for that too, on my knees, fasting 
I prayed you might love me!” 

“ Some kind saint listened — I have burnt many 
candles at many shrines.” 

Her arms slipped from his neck, she sat upright, 
adjusting her thrown-back hair which lay in 
coils inside her hood. 

The gondola stopped. 

For a moment it shook to and fro as the man 
fastened it to the post, then rocked steadily at 
the moorings. 

“ We are there ?” asked Giuditta. 

She felt that all this had happened before in 
a dream ; the narrow doorway with the steep 
steps rising out of the water, the two grated 
windows and the high-placed iron lamp that shed 
a dismal light over the masonry were all familiar 
to her. 

“ This is not your house ?” she whispered. 

“No, the house of one of my friends — empty for 
the moment. But I have all ready for this night’s 
feast.” 

“ It looks gloomy,” said Giuditta. 

She stood up, drawing her cloak about her 
shoulders. 


70 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Astorre laid a plank from the gondola to the 
steps and handed her ashore. 

She entered. 

A long passage was before her, damp and 
narrow, the house seemed mean and neglected. 

Giuditta turned to her lover who was quickly 
beside her. 

“ You said you were bringing me to your home — 
here I would not have come.” 

“ This is my true home — not in the great palace, 
I have prepared it for you n 

She was unconvinced, and hesitated. 

“You cannot turn back now,” he said, gently 
taking her arm, “ here it is safe — no one will come 
to seek you here.” 

“ That is true,” she admitted. 

“ And you are with me.” 

“ Lead me,” she said, “ and light ! light ! We 
have been in the dark so long !” 

He took her hand and led her down the passage 
which was high and dark and damp and narrow — 
the entrance of a poor and neglected house, 
Giuditta thought. 

Resentment touched her heart like a little 
flame; her adventure was spoilt by these sordid 
surroundings, her love was no longer what it had 
been on the balcony of her own beautiful chamber 
or in the gondola under the stars. 

“ Where are you leading me ?” she asked, and 
her hand stiffened in his grasp. 

The passage seemed endless. 

Now they reached some steps, he guided her 
up, opened a door and ushered her into a lit 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 


7 1 


room. It was a fair-sized apartment with painted 
walls and ceiling; the two windows were open; 
a chandelier of coloured glass gave the soft yellow 
light. 

Beneath stood a table elegantly laid with two 
covers and two purple velvet chairs; for the rest 
the furniture was of a bedroom ; a bed draped with 
purple and rose-coloured hangings stood on a 
dais, there were coffers, mirrors and a dressing- 
table. 

Giuditta did not like the room. 

It was not the setting she had imagined or wished 
for her love. 

The chamber seemed to her unpleasant, even 
fearful, yet there was nothing strange about the 
place, it was like so many other Venetian rooms, 
rich, sombre, a little heavy in furnishing. 

Astorre handed her into one of the velvet chairs 
and turned to leave her. 

“ Prince,” she said imperiously, “ I do not like 
this house.” 

He stood, with his hand on the open door, 
looking at her intently. 

Now at last he was revealed to her, after the 
long concealment of the dark ; she forgot her 
vexation as she looked at him. 

His was the extreme handsomeness of face and 
body that is the passport to all worldly pleasures, 
handsomeness of dark warm colouring, of beautiful 
eyes, masculine and passionate, of a haughty 
mouth, curved and sensitive, handsomeness of 
movement and gestures, bearing and pose. 

His curled black hair was only slightly powdered 


72 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

and he wore no hat; a double caped cloak hung 
open to show his suit of dark crimson; he wore 
diamonds in his cravat that twinkled under the 
clasp of his mantle. 

Giuditta, looking at him, smiled. 

She loved him, she was proud of him — they 
were together. 

What did the background matter ? 

She put her fair head back against the velvet 
back of the chair. 

11 Why do you leave me, Astorre ?” she asked 
in a gentler tone. 

He had been fixing her with an intense scrutiny, 
drinking in her jewelled beauty as she was his, 
she believed. 

At her words he drew himself together with 
a little start, as if awakened out of some dream 
or reverie. 

“I go to fetch your supper, Giuditta,’ ’ he 
answered. 11 To-night I wait on you.” 

Without waiting for her consent, he left her 
quickly. 

Giuditta sat still awhile playing with the pearls 
on her bosom and the sweet thoughts in her 
mind. 

Then she rose and went to the window as people 
always will in a strange room. 

She was at the back of the house and the stag- 
nant waters of a little-used canal sucked at the 
bricks two feet below the windows, opposite the 
blank walls of crowded houses blocked out the 
night. 

It was silent and desolate — Giuditta did not 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 


73 


find this silence soft and pleasing as had been that 
on the canals, but rather dreary and sinister. 

She moved back into the room, went to one of 
the mirrors and surveyed her own gorgeous fair- 
ness, pearl and diamond bedecked, to give her 
courage. 

She was beautiful, no doubts could obscure that 
fact — she was beautiful, and what had beauty to 
fear? — in her experience, nothing. 

Now she moved to the door and opened it — 
without the utter darkness of the corridor. 

Quickly she closed it; horror, like a palpable 
presence, rose and confronted her. 

“ What is the matter with this room ?” she 
asked herself. 

Fear suddenly rose from all sides, engulfing her 
like waves. 

She seemed to stand in isolation assailed by a 
thousand phantoms of horror, terror, and wrath; 
deeper fear and dismay than she had imagined 
possible to experience were now poured into her 
heart as water into a cup. 

She had a glimpse into regions of infernal 
melancholy and unclean blackness, which was as 
if she peered suddenly into a chasm darker and 
deeper than eternity. 

She seemed to be sinking down the steep 
walls of hell into an abyss where she would be 
for ever lost, lost to all she had ever loved or 
enjoyed. 

Buried through long aeons with the sins of a 
hundred million years lying heavy on her heart. 

. . . Then the great horror passed; she fell on 


74 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


her knees beside the chair from which she had 
risen sick and shivering. 

Clasping her hands tightly she called on her 
love. 

“ Astorre, why do you leave me ?” 

Now she had no desire for love, no appetite for 
pleasure, but she called on the only human being 
whom she thought to be near. 

What was the matter with the room — what had 
happened here, why was she imprisoned here 
between the open windows with the lapping black 
waters beneath and the open door with the black 
passage without ? 

She turned round about like one confined, and 
though she was free of action and surrounded by 
space, her movement was as if she beat against 
bars. 

Her straining ears heard a step and she moved 
to her feet, stumbling in her long gown and shaking 
the pearls and diamonds on her bosom. 

Astorre entered. 

She scarcely saw him with gladness; he seemed 
to have changed since they had entered the house; 
even his beauty was no longer pleasant, but had 
in it something horrible; as a handsome face will 
look from a design of hideous forms and partake 
of their terror, so he seemed to have been absorbed 
into the atmosphere of the house, robbed of charm 
and invested with horror. 

“ Prince/’ said Giuditta feebly, “ take me away 
from here.” 

He pointed to the untouched table. 

“ We have not supped.'” 


75 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 

“ I could not eat.” 

“ What has happened, Giuditta ?” 

She made a great effort over her fears, but the 
earlier joyousness of the evening was not to be 
recaptured. 

“ Nothing has happened — but I feel as if I was 
going to lose all I cared for.” 

He seated himself at the table, and taking his 
face in his hands looked at her. 

“ All you ever cared for ? What have you ever 
cared for ?” 

She could not answer — what, in truth, was 
there she was afraid to lose ? 

To escape from this house she would have gladly 
forgone Astorre and found herself at home beside 
the drugged husband, for at the touch of personal 
fear, passion had died, and other days would bring 
another love. 

“ Myself,” she said at last. “ I fear to lose 
myself, my life, my existence ” 

“ That in truth,” answered Astorre, “ is all 
that you have to lose.” 

She noticed now the difference in his tone; not 
with this had he spoken to her in the gondola. 

Another and dreadful fear possessed her now. 

“ Astorre, why have you brought me here ?” 

“ You ask me that now ? Was it not for your 
sweet company ?” 

She supported herself by the chair and looked 
from him to the two open windows. 

“ I do not like this place,” she said almost as 
if to herself. 

“ Why?” 


76 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Close the windows/’ she continued, “ the air 
from the water is damp.” 

“ The night is warm, Giuditta.” 

“ But I feel the house chill.” 

She looked round for the cloak she had brought 
with her; it was brocade, the colour of faded red 
roses, lined with lemon-coloured satin, her marriage 
cloak. . . . 

She thought of her husband . . . she pictured 
him, very vividly, lying beside the bed in the 
dark room, with the bridal flowers scattered 
near. 

Her fingers trembled as she fingered the mantle ; 
what a perverse fool she was — she might as well 
have loved the Marchese, he was as personable a 
man as the one she had chosen — why had she 
risked so much for Astorre? — i£. she was not back 
before the palace was awake she was lost, lost before 
all Venice. 

Why had she done this foolish thing, she asked 
herself dully — she could not now understand the 
passion that had prompted her to this adventure. 

Thinking only of her own safety and her own 
terrors, she sank huddled into the chair and 
stared at Astorre. 

The door was pushed open gently and a woman 
entered bearing a salver on which were various 
dishes. 

She wore a plain cloth dress that might have 
been that of any servant, but over her face was a 
thick mask with slits for the mouth and eyes; 
made of grey silk and spotted with scarlet, it was 
one of the fantastic vizards of carnival. 


77 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 

“ What is your jest ?” asked Giuditta. 

The woman put the dishes on the table; meat, 
pastries, and fruit on carved silver, and tall bottles 
of wine in cases of filigree. 

u What jest ?” repeated Giuditta. 

“ There is no jest/’ said Astorre. 

Giuditta rose in wild terror. 

“ A plot, there is some plot — this food is poisoned, 
I can swear it !” 

“ You shall not eat if you do not wish,” he 
showed no surprise at her fears. 

The masked woman remained standing inside 
the door, the salver in her hands. 

Giuditta lowered at both of them. 

“ Take me home,” she said between her teeth, 
“ or on my soul you shall pay for it !” 

“ Certainly I shall pay for this night’s work,” 
he replied; he began unconcernedly to drink his 
wine and eat his supper. 

Now she trembled with supplication. 

“ What harm have I ever done to you ? You 
loved me, did you not ? But a little while 
ago.” 

Astorre laughed. 

“ Prince,” she continued desperately, “ what is 
this you have against me ?” 

“ What should I have against you ?” 

Another thought came to her. 

“ You are mad, mad,” she pointed to the silent 
third, “ that woman is mad also !” 

“Not mad, Giuditta.” 

“ Then take me home.” 

All her energy was now concentrated on that, 


78 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

to get away, to escape, to be free of them both, 
to be back in her own place. 

Astorre rose, his glass in his hand. 

“ To your good health, Giuditta.” 

He drank to her gravely, mockingly, she 
thought, his fine hand flushed red from the re- 
flection of the wine cast by the candles above his 
head, which filtered their light through sparkling 
glass. 

She waited, helpless. 

“ Why are you frightened ?” asked Astorre. 
“ I swear I shall never touch you.” 

“ Why should you, what have you against me ?” 
through all her terrors she fumbled with the wonder 
of it all ... a little while ago they had been 
lovers. 

The woman now came forward to remove the 
plates. 

“ Take off your mask,” said Astorre. 

She did so and looked at Giuditta with a pale, 
mournful face. 

“You know her ?” asked Astorre. 

“ No !” 

“ It is Rosina.” 

Rosina ! Changed, oh, Heaven, changed !” cried 
Giuditta. 

“ You remember her?” smiled Astorre. “ She 
was betrothed to Rosario — he left her for you — he 
amused you — and she ” 

“ You never thought of me, did you ?” asked 
Rosina, “ nor of all the other women whose hearts 
you rifled ?” 

“Is this a vendetta ?” asked Giuditta swiftly. 


79 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 

I swear that we shall not touch you,” repeated 
Astorre. 

This did not reassure her nor lift the black cloud 
of terror that hung over her soul ; the sight of the 
woman whom she had so wantonly and maliciously 
and contemptuously wronged, filled her with 
unavailing rage and deeper dread. 

She turned to Astorre, something of her beauty, 
blanched and withered through fear, returned in 
the flush of her anger. 

“ Why do you champion her,” she demanded, 
“ was your brother so much to you ?” 

“ He was much and she was more. I always 
loved Rosina, as she loved Rosario.” 

Giuditta flung her head back and looked at him 
out of half closed eyes from which gleamed hatred. 

“ How I loathe you,” she said. 

His beauty was now to her like the gorgeous 
skin of the serpent, a thing to be detested and 
destroyed. 

She would gladly have killed him and stepped 
over his dead body to freedom. 

Her helplessness made her sick with fury. 

” Come away,” said Rosina. 

She slipped her hand inside Astorre ’s. 

“ Good-night, Giuditta,” said Astorre. 

Relief soothed her when they were gone; she 
thought they meant to ruin her by leaving her 
there so that she could not return in time. 

But she believed her wits were equal to this 
dilemma. 

They locked the door after them as she had 
expected. 


8o 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


But there were the windows. 

Mounting on a chair she detached one of the 
candles from the chandelier, and hurrying to the 
first window, thrust the light out and stared about 
her. 

She had enough jewels to bribe half Venice — 
there must be someone who would come to her 
rescue. 

The flame burned straight in the still air, it 
showed the waters below — the walls of the house; 
nothing else. 

No boat, no passing gondola, no light in an 
opposite window encouraged her to hope. 

The place was deserted. 

Still she moved the candle to and fro and peered 
to right and left. 

Suddenly she ceased this movement of her arm, 
she continued to stare and her face became as 
lifeless as the stone window that framed her 
terror. 

She had seen between the two windows, coarsely 
marked on the rough wall, the scarlet cross, 
the warning and the sign of a plague-stricken 
house. 

The candle dropped through her fingers, the 
little flame hissed to extinction in the sucking 
black waters. 

Slowly she moved back into the room; physical 
nausea seized her; her jewels galled her like ropes 
of lead. 

She tottered to the bed to stretch her fainting 
limbs there. 

When her shaking hands had contrived to draw 


GIUDITTA’S WEDDING NIGHT 81 

the curtains, shriek after shriek left her lips and 
echoed through the doomed house. 

There lay Rosario, stiff and awful on the neat 
pillows ; his livid, mottled face showing the manner 
of his death. 

The plague. 


6 


IV. — SOPHIA FIELDING 

No. 342 . — A Portrait of a Lady , painter and subject 
unknown y school of Lely y seventeenth century . 
Portrait of a young woman seated , turned to the 
left, fair hair in ringlets, wearing a grey satin 
gown, and holding a pink rose, smiling and look- 
ing at spectator , much obscured by dirt and dust . 

Sophia Fielding, her daily duties done, moved 
lightly through her home, finding the long afternoon 
neither dull nor empty, so little count does inner 
happiness take of outer glooms. 

The sunless manor house was cheerful to Sophia, 
the solitude a pleasant thing, for she carried in her 
bosom the letter from her lover in which he asked 
her to be his wife. 

It was sweet to know that he loved her when she 
had been torturing herself with a thousand foolish 
doubts, it was glorious to know that he was out of 
danger and coming to her that very evening. 

So her brother wrote, in that other dear letter she 
treasured: “ I return to-night, safely, as Heaven 
grant it, the rebels are all scattered and will soon 
be dealt with as such villains deserve. I bring 
Captain Brabazon, who has acquitted himself very 
well. He has asked me for your hand in marriage, 
82 


SOPHIA FIELDING 83 

which I take to be a proposition as agreeable to you 
as it is to me, and honourable to both of us.” 

There was not a cloud in her sky, which was the 
brighter for the storms which had lately over-cast 
it — the rebellion, the alarm and confusion of the 
country, the advance of the rebels with all the wild 
rumours and terrors that accompanied them, the 
departure of her brother and lover, soldiers both, 
to help stem this tide of wild aggression — the days 
and nights of wild anxiety, of hope and dread and 
waiting. 

And then Sedgemoor and these two letters 
brought her by a flushed young corporal who had 
galloped up and away swiftly to join in the good 
work of dealing with “ those villains, the rebels.” 

Fielding House stood so near Sedgemoor that 
Sophia had lain awake all night listening to the 
sound of Feversham’s artillery which had continued 
intermittently until dusk of the next day. 

The maid-servants had closed themselves in their 
rooms, fearful of a rebel victory and that Mon- 
mouth’s men should sack the desolate house and 
hang them all on the threshold. 

Sophia had nursed no such terror, but she had 
been still with apprehension for Captain Brabazon. 
Now those terrible days were over; the rebellion 
was no more, the King was safe on his throne, the 
world had again swung into its normal course and 
those dear to her were coming home. 

She had seen to the preparation of their rooms, 
she had ordered the supper that was to welcome 
them; since she was fourteen she had been her 
brother’s housekeeper, walking carefully in the 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


84 

ways her dead mother had taught her, and skilful 
in all womanly matters. 

To-day she had done all there was to be done, and 
she felt too excited to employ herself with her 
needle or her embroidery or her tapestry-frame, so 
she moved from one room to another in a state of 
pleasurable agitation, the pretty colour coming and 
going in her cheeks as she anticipated the meeting 
of that evening. 

What would he say — ■“ You got my letter?” 
Could she speak like that, so frankly and courage- 
ously, would she not rather be tongue-tied until he 
coaxed her into speech ? 

Over the mantelpiece and opposite where he 
would sit at the supper-table she had placed, with 
some blushes and timidity, a portrait of herself, 
taken when her brother had carried her to London 
for His Majesty’s coronation. A pupil of the Court 
painter, Sir Peter Lely, had executed the portrait 
and painted Sophia in the correct attitude of a 
Court lady. Ignoring fashions of pannier and tight 
bodice, high head-dress and lace lappels, he had 
taken her in a loose gown of grey satin, with her 
hair flowing naturally, sleeves and bosom caught 
with pearl studs and in the right hand a pink rose. 

Sophia, who had thought the town fashions 
strange and disconcerting, was pleased with this 
simplicity, in which indeed her modest beauty 
bloomed most fairly, and to-day, in honour of her 
happiness, she wore the grey satin gown and at the 
heart had fastened a pink rose. 

She looked at the painting with approval, the 
paint was bright and fresh, the varnish glossy, the 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


85 

colouring had a pleasant glow — Sophia thought it 
worth the good guineas her brother Roger, in the 
pride of his affectionate heart, had paid to the 
agreeable young painter. 

But she soon became tired of looking at the pic- 
ture, and taking up the dark blue mantle that always 
lay ready in the hall (a country garment ill suited 
to cover satins), put it over her shoulders and stepped 
out into the garden. 

The sundial in the forecourt told her that it was 
only three o’clock. 

She had the whole sunny afternoon before her, 
in which to dream and meditate . . . her happy 
time of dreams which she was to long recall when 
all her dreams were over. 

Over the red brick of the house roses and honey- 
suckle climbed, the solitudes of the garden were filled 
with sweet flowers and herbs, the purple spikes of 
the rosemary, the clouded blue of the lavender, the 
vivid blue of the larkspurs rose amid the blooms 
of summer. 

Sophia passed to where the garden ended in a 
low hedge of yew, and looked across the lonely and 
serene country-side, fields and pastures, orchards 
and meadows sloping to moor and heath. 

From here she had almost been able to see the 
battle — that bitter battle between Englishmen, on 
English soil. 

As she gazed now a shadow came over her happi- 
ness, pity for those who had died the other day — 
pity for those who had yet to die. 

Rebels — they deserved death (Sophia was of 
loyalist stock and believed in divine right), but she 


86 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


hoped that the King would be merciful — yet he had 
no great reputation for mercy. 

Sophia even felt pity for the young, foolish leader 
of this enterprise that had ended so mournfully — 
my Lord of Monmouth, the Protestant Duke, and 
King Monmouth as the peasantry here in the West 
called him. 

Her brother had given her the character of the 
man in a few contemptuous words — the spoilt dear 
of fortune and of women, shallow, unstable, a rake, 
a libertine, without courage or decision ; edged on 
to this attempt by more cunning rogues like Argyll 
and Ferguson, he would, young Roger Fielding had 
said, be proved a veritable coward and trifler when 
the supreme moment of his fortunes came and dis- 
aster walked at his elbow, and turned his steps 
towards Tower Hill. 

For, certainly, even if the poorer victims were 
spared this arch rebel would not be; he had pro- 
claimed himself King of England, he had sanc- 
tioned Ferguson’s wild manifesto that accused the 
rightful sovereign of absurd crimes . . . and James 
had always hated his mother’s favourite son, who 
could have cheated him out of a throne if a certain 
black box containing a marriage certificate could 
have been found. 

So whoever was saved, the young Duke, once the 
darling of a Court and the beloved of a King, was 
doomed. 

Sophia was sorry when she thought of this ; in her 
own happiness she would have liked to confer happi- 
ness on all others. 

She was sorry that this man must die ; she hoped 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


87 

that he might reach the coast and escape; she had 
heard that there was a lady in Holland whom he 
loved better than his own Duchess — Sophia frowned 
at that — she condemned the Duke but pitied the 
lady. 

“ What should I do,” she thought simply, “ if 
Jack Brabazon was married to another and came 
wooing me the same ?” 

She opened the little gate in the yew hedge and 
stepped out into the field. 

The sunshine was like a blessing over her, she 
threw back the cloak and let the warmth fall over 
her bare head. 

Then she seated herself under a hawthorn on a 
little knoll. 

There were no more blooms, but a close mass of 
green leaves cast a shade. Sophia sat outside this, 
in the sun, with her hands clasped round her knees. 

She was withdrawn into dreams again when a 
little sound startled her — a sound distinct from all 
the usual noises of the country-side. 

It was repeated again — a very gentle and heart- 
broken sigh. 

Sophia looked very keenly over her shoulder, in 
the direction of this sound. 

A deep ditch or gulley ran down the field, and 
from this a man was raising himself, one hand on 
the grass-grown edge either side. 

As Sophia stared he lifted himself with great 
grace and ease to level ground and stood, not five 
yards away from the girl, shaking the earth and 
dust, grasses and ferns from his clothes. 

As he looked up from this he saw Sophia. 


88 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He put his hand very quickly to his heart, and 
looked to right and left. 

11 A fugitive,” thought Sophia. 

A fugitive, that was to say, a rebel, a traitor — 
contempt chilled Sophia’s pity. 

The man, after looking keenly about him, brought 
his eyes to her face. 

“ You are alone ?” 

Her nostrils widened ; perhaps he meant to 
frighten her; with level gaze she defied him. 

“ Not so alone as to be fearful of such as you,” she 
replied. 

He very faintly smiled, then sighed. 

“ I never inspired terror,” he said. 

“You are a rebel,” remarked Sophia; she spoke 
with the lofty scorn of one bred and nurtured in 
loyalty. 

“ One of Monmouth’s officers,” he answered; he 
continued to hold his heart, like one spent with 
fatigue and pain. 

“ You fled ?” 

He nodded. 

“You are broken, you rebels ?” 

“ Broken.” 

“ There will be no mercy,” said Sophia hardening 
herself. 

“ None.” 

“ My brother and my ” she checked the words 

— “ all my friends were with Feversham.” 

“ They were fortunate.” 

“ Loyal they are,” said Sophia. 

She rose, shaking the little dry grass seeds from 
the grey satin skirt. 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


89 


“ What did you hope to do ?” she asked curiously. 

“It was a fool and his folly from the first/’ he 
replied. 

She looked at him closely, saw how stained and 
weary was his unshaven face, his head tied un- 
couthly with a silk handkerchief, his linen all soiled 
... his countenance seemed familiar to her, or 
like someone she had once known. 

With a feeling of pity that was almost of shame 
she reflected on what state of misery he must be 
reduced to before he would stand like this before 
her, passively as if awaiting her decision. She had 
not realised the punishment waiting the rebels nor 
the penalties to be inflicted on those who succoured 
or sheltered them. 

On the impulse, and ignorant of what she might 
be risking, she spoke. 

“ Are you hungry and tired ?” her voice was cold, 
and he flushed. 

* I am sadly in need of clean linen,” he answered. 

Something in his manner impressed her, some- 
thing grand and strange . . . poor wretch, she was 
sure he was a gentleman. 

“ I am alone in the house save for the maids,” 
she said, “ my brother does not return until to- 
night and our men are all abroad looking for rebels 
— strange they did not find you.” 

“ I have been in ditches,” he said. 

“ If you will trust me,” replied Sophia, “ I will 
give you what help I may, but you must never 
boast of it or think of me as your friend, for I despise 
your party and your conduct and scorn you for the 
disloyal rebel you are.” 


90 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ I must grow used to scorn and contempt, Ma- 
dam — the price of failure.’ ’ 

“ If you had succeeded,” said Sophia, “ I should 
have felt the same — your Duke would never have 
been my king.” 

She turned away, beckoning him to follow her; 
they skirted the outside of the garden wall, reached 
the house and the door in the side ; as Sophia opened 
this, she spoke. 

“ You hope to get to the sea ?” 

“ That is my intention.” 

“You had better wait till it is dark.” 

They mounted the narrow turnpike stair; “ how 
easily he comes,” thought Sophia — she thought it 
was not so much trust that made him put his life so 
easily into her hands, but rather the apathy of utter 
fatigue and despair. 

She felt sobered, even saddened ; her glorious after- 
noon of dreams was spoilt ; it seemed as if she, as 
well as the man behind her, was doomed to some 
miserable and hastening fate. 

At the top of the staircase were two rooms, the 
wardrobe and the woman’s room, beyond her 
brother’s three apartments. 

She had been sure that no one would be here, all 
were busy in the kitchens ; the sheets and coverlets 
for the guest-chamber had long since been selected. 

The wardrobe was a large room, filled with 
presses and coffers, rolls of tapestry, bales of stuff 
for making up, sets of covers for chairs and bed 
draperies, all manner of furniture plenishings and 
trappings. 

Sophia led him into the next room which was 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


9i 


called the woman’s room and contained distaffs, 
spinning-wheels, tapestry frames, all implements 
for sewing and embroidery, with designs for the 
same pinned on the wall, while half-finished gar- 
ments and linen in the course of mending was piled 
on the various tables. 

“ We are safe here,” said Sophia. 

Her heart was beating a little fast, she opened 
the door of her brother’s apartment. 

“You will find there clean linen and water, and 
when you return here I will have some food for 
you.” 

He thanked her with a little smile, and again the 
swift impression that his face was familiar to her 
came upon her like a shock. 

The door closed on him and she went downstairs, 
vexed with herself. 

She was sure that her brother would not be 
pleased with her action — she did not think that her 
lover would. 

Almost she regretted the impulse of pity that had 
impelled her to succour this wretched rebel. 

She managed to creep unperceived into the larder 
and in two journeys to convey up to the woman’s 
room a jug of cider, a loaf of white bread, a cold 
meat pasty, some cheese and some apples. 

For appointments she went to her own closet and 
took from her few pieces of silver, a knife, fork and 
tumbler of gilded silver, and from her linen press 
a napkin of linen. 

She regretted taking these which were considered 
too choice for her own use, but she could get no 
others without disturbing the servants. 


92 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

Locking the door of the wardrobe on the stair- 
case she spread her little feast, taking a certain 
pleasure in this, but blushing the while with vexa- 
tion at her situation. 

The fugitive was so long in her brother’s chamber 
that she began to feel nervous. 

It was well past four — there were not so many 
hours before that triumphant return to-night and 
Sophia felt suddenly and quite decidedly that she 
would sooner go forth an outcast herself than have 
her brother and Jack Brabazon discover her with 
the rebel. 

And she had to remove the food and rearrange 
the chamber. 

She knocked on the door. 

Almost instantly he opened it ; Sophia pointed to 
the table, then, retreating, seated herself apart, 
between the large distaff on which the thick flax 
hung; behind her head an oriel window admitted 
the western sun. 

This, falling over her fair hair, lingering in her 
lap and over her crossed hands, finally rested on the 
head and shoulders of the man at the table. 

Sophia, still holding herself in antagonism, ven- 
tured to look at him. 

He was looking at her. 

As she met his eyes an extraordinary feeling 
touched her nerves. 

As if she looked at the newly returned dead, or 
one singled out from humanity for some awful 
doom ... so strange was his expression, so im- 
possible was it for her to read its meaning. 

It was a beautiful face, she wondered that she 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


93 

had not noticed before how beautiful, how un- 
usual. 

He had shaved, and a little blood now coloured 
his cheeks, brown in their proper complexion; he 
had taken the handkerchief from his head, and his 
hair, dark auburn brown, thick and curly, fell on to 
his shoulders. 

His cravat and shirt were clean, his suit, a fawn- 
coloured riding habit, freed from dust, his soft knee- 
boots brushed. 

Where the shirt frill fell over the waistcoat Sophia 
caught a glimpse of a jewel concealed in the fold of 
linen. 

Sophia did not speak. 

She wished he would move his gaze. 

His eyes were very beautiful, she had noticed 
them at first, dark, changeful, mournful, but not 
effeminate, they at once aroused interest and attrac- 
tion. 

The face seemed made for gaiety — the low brow, 
the short nose, the full mouth and cleft chin, the 
handsomeness of contour and of colour were meant 
to charm and be charmed. 

All the more terrible was this look of bewilder- 
ment, of despair — of tragic hopelessness. He ate 
his food slowly and without relish. 

“ We are a long way from the coast,” said Sophia 
at last, speaking out of her thoughts. 

He seemed to rouse himself from dreams. 

“ A long way for a man tracked as I am tracked 
— hiding as I must hide 1” 

“ Perhaps they will think no more of you — there 
are so many others.” 


94 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He shuddered violently. 

“ Poor souls ! poor souls !” 

“ They must pay.” 

“ Those who led them should pay,” he spoke 
with the first show of passion he had given, “ why 
should they pay ? Poor souls, poor souls, they 
knew not what they did.” 

“ One should pay for all,” said Sophia, “ and 
that one is the Duke of Monmouth.” 

The rebel looked at her with that strange expres- 
sion of submission. 

“ I do believe he would be very willing to pay for 
all, very willing to do anything to save the poor 
misled wretches who followed him.” 

“ But he can do nothing,” said Sophia thought- 
fully, then she added,” How did he bear himself in 
the battle ?” 

“ He is no soldier,” said the fugitive. 

“ But he has been brave in France, and in Scot- 
land, they say.” 

“ Then he fought with Fortune, not against 
her.” 

“You mean he has no courage ?” 

“ He has no courage for this turn — he fled.” 

“ Before the day was lost ?” 

“ Yea, before the day was lost — fled and left his 
poor peasants to fight his doomed cause.” 

So saying he rose and began walking up and down 
the room very slowly, between the spinning-wheels 
and great presses and rolls of arras and tapestry 
covers. 

Sophia sat still; it all seemed sordid and miser- 
able, her contempt of the rebels was changed to 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


95 

compassion, her scorn of their leader intensified, 
poor fop, poor coward ! 

“ Where is he now, this Duke of yours ?” she 
asked. 

“ As I am,” he answered, “ a fugitive, friendless 
— hopeless l” 

“ He will be captured ?” 

“ How can he escape capture ?” 

“ And then ?” 

He looked at her in silence. 

“ Well,” said Sophia, “ he wishes to be a king, 
and must die like a king.” 

She rose and moved to the window; the sunset 
was beginning to colour the sky with a great stain 
like living blood. 

“ It is not so easy to pay,” said the rebel, “ when 
one is young — and loved. Come, if you loved and 
were separated from your lover would you care to 
have to die before you saw him again, die without 
a word or a look ?” 

Sophia turned to him ; she saw that he was speak- 
ing of himself, that he was facing the thought of his 
own death with unutterable horror and dread, with 
no courage and yet with that curious resignation 
that kept his speech low and his face composed. 

Sophia did not care to look at him. 

“You may escape or you may find mercy,” she 
said with averted face. 

“ Mercy ?” he repeated hastily, “ when did King 
James show mercy to any ? Think you he will 
show mercy to Monmouth ?” 

Loyalty impelled her to defend the King. 

“ How can he forgive black treason ? The Duke 


96 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

had no shadow of right, for the dignity of England 
the King must not forgive Monmouth. But you, 
you who have been misled and cajoled may — 
be ” 

“ God knows I was misled/’ he interrupted with 
great passion. 

“ How could you have been deceived by a cause 
so hopeless ?” 

“ Hopeless !” he repeated in a tired voice, “ from 
the first hopeless ! Yet England rose to meet us — 
the West welcomed us !” 

For the second during which he spoke the mourn- 
ful expression of his face changed, a look of pleasure 
brightened his eyes and curved his mouth as he 
recalled those early deceptive triumphs of the fatal 
expedition. 

This passing change showed to Sophia what he 
must have been once, the charm, the gaiety once 
possessed by that countenance now so dreary and 
harassed ; she had an impression of something 
strange, at once rare and spoilt. 

“ The world is sad and wrong,” she said, “ and 
I am sorry for you who have come against this sad- 
ness and this wrong — though I hate your deed and 
despise your leader.” 

“You think he deserves to die ?” 

Sophia hesitated. 

“Oh, sir, how dare I say that of any human 
creature ? He has been very sinful, but I hear 
one woman loves him truly, and that is something 
good of him.” 

“ It is true,” answered the fugitive eagerly, “ and 
she is a gentlewoman of merit, you must never think 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


97 

less of her, a good woman. ... I knew her in 
Holland, a good woman . . . and very brave . . . 
she left all for him.” 

Sophia's youthful severity did not admire this, 
but she could spare pity for the Duke’s lady waiting 
forlorn for evil news. 

“ What will she do ?” she asked wonderingly. 

He looked at her swiftly ; his voice was still eager 
and his beautiful eyes shone. 

“ She will die,” he said, “ so they will not be so 
long separated.” 

She did not dislike him for the loyalty to love his 
speech showed. 

She also thought there was nothing now for the 
Duke’s lover but death. 

“ Will you go now ?” she said, “ while I can guide 
you past our grounds.” 

He seemed to rouse himself. 

“ Go ?” he glanced round the room. “ I feel at 
peace here ” 

“ But you cannot stay, my brother comes to- 
night.” 

“ He is a soldier, you said ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Searching now for fugitives, eh ?” 

Sophia felt ashamed. 

“ It is poor sport,” said the rebel, answering her 
silence. “ I remember after Bothwell Brig Claver- 
house wanted to cut down the Whigs — and I stopped 
him. I am glad of that. I thought of it last night; 
they thought I was soft, but I am glad of it.” 

“ You stopped them ? The Duke of Monmouth 
was in command at Bothwell Brig !” 


7 


98 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Child, have you not guessed I bear that most 
unfortunate name ?” 

Confused by a great timidity Sophia shrank away ; 
abashed by the greatness and the doom of this quiet 
gentleman. 

“ You are Monmouth, you ,” she murmured stu- 
pidly, all the times that she had heard his gilded 
name rang in her head. 

“ I am he. Now let me go. And if you have a 
lover, child, teach him to be merciful.” 

Sophia closed her eyes. 

John Brabazon and her brother were searching 
for rebels — searching for Monmouth — before she 
had not thought of this with terror, but now she 
shivered at the reflection. 

“ Do you pity me ?” smiled the Duke, moving to 
the door. 

Sophia raised her troubled eyes. 

“ It would be a hard heart that could not pity 
your Grace.” 

“ There are many hard hearts abroad, my dear, 
there is one on the throne of England.” 

A sense of despair seized Sophia, she seemed to 
be touched by his anguish as by a bitter chilling 
wind. 

“ Oh, why did }^ou embark on this ? You might 
have been happy in exile !” 

He looked at her with eyes of agony. 

“ I was happy.” 

“ And yet you tried for this foolishness ?” 

“ I was persuaded. I was not meant for these 
turns but for peaceful times. I was persuaded by 
ambitious men.” 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


99 

As he confessed his weakness and his failure the 
tears stood in his eyes. 

He held out his hands to Sophia. 

“You are a good child. And a Protestant, de- 
spite your loyalty ?” 

“ Yes.” 

She suffered him to take her hands. 

“ Pray for me,” said Monmouth in an exalted 
tone. “ Pray for me — when I am — when it is over. 
I have been wicked — but I never wronged any wit- 
tingly. God bless you and your lover.” 

He looked steadily into her distressed face, and 
added in a lower tone, “ And pray for her. She is 
as good as you, and my wife before God. She took 
me from great looseness of life and taught me happi- 
ness.” 

He shuddered and let Sophia’s hands drop from 
his. 

“ Now let me go.” 

Sophia roused herself. 

“ Your Grace cannot go like that.” 

She pointed to his clothes. 

He stared at her helplessly. 

“ You must be in some disguise.” 

She clasped her brow and he stood, with his air 
of resignation, waiting for her decision. 

With the fastidiousness of the man who had 
never known dirt or even dishevellment before he 
had eagerly (more eagerly than he had taken food) 
accepted the chance of clean linen and of altering 
the disorder in his appearance, he had never thought 
of the folly of going abroad in this guise. 

Nor, till this moment, had Sophia. 


IOO 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Now she was conscious that they both, in face of 
great difficulty and tragedy, had been behaving like 
a couple of dazed children. 

She tried to gather her wits. 

The Duke stood watching her, quite passively. 

Sophia remembered an old peasant on the estate 
whose grandson had joined the rebels and whose 
sympathies were wholly with the Protestant Duke 
— this man might provide a suit of rough clothes at 
least. 

“ I must go,” said Monmouth, “ this way I en- 
danger you.” 

He looked at the blood-coloured splendour of the 
sunset, which was now fading from the deepening 
purple of the sky. 

And he looked with a shudder as a man who knows 
he might count how many times he will see the sun 
rise or set. 

Sophia turned to the stairs and he followed her; 
his gentle step behind her sounded curiously in her 
ears. 

They entered the garden, which was illuminated . 
by the last hesitating light. 

The Duke now walked beside Sophia. 

As long as memory lasted she could not pass 
through this yew-bordered walk without seeing this 
sad figure with the beautiful face of resigned anguish 
moving by her side. She stepped swiftly, fearful 
of observation from the house. 

When they left the garden and came out on to 
the hillside Sophia felt a little relief and yet a deeper 
melancholy. 

The evening air, the sunset colour in the sky, the 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


IOI 


low breeze that waved the long grasses seemed fit- 
ting surroundings for the doomed man whose des- 
pair was touched with exaltation and who from 
bewildering agony was drawing some strange secret 
comfort, as men on the rack have held communica- 
tion with angels. 

Sophia looked shyly at his face. 

Now they walked side by side. 

I hope your Grace may get away/' she said; 
these were the only words of comfort of which she 
could think. 

“ I have no such hopes,” he answered. 

“ Then what upholds your Grace ?” 

“ Upholds me ?” he said with hesitation. 

Sophia hesitated also; by his own confession he 
had played a paltry part, by her own observation 
he was broken by his misfortunes, yet she could 
find no other word but this “ uphold.” 

“ I do think that your Grace is in some way sup- 
ported.” 

“ By memory,” he said slowly; “ remember that 
you have promised me to pray for her.” 

He spoke as one might speak of the dead; “ it is 
love,” thought Sophia; “ in spirit they communicate 
and she comforts him.” 

They reached the cottage she had in mind; it 
stood lonely, out of sight of the house ; the old man 
was working in his garden. 

Sophia ran to the little gate and spoke : 

“ You have a grandson with the rebels, Peter ?” 

He straightened himself. 

“ Captured — killed ?” 

Sophia shook her head. 


102 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ I have no news. This is a rebel — will you give 
him a suit of clothes that he may have a chance of 
escape ?” 

The old man looked from her to the Duke. 

“ I thought your ladyship was loyal/’ he said. 

“ I trust you,” answered Sophia. 

The peasant looked long at the fugitive, peering 
with his worn eyes through the dusk. 

“ Come in, come in,” he said at last. 

Monmouth followed him into the cottage ; Sophia 
noticed how he had to stoop in entering the low 
door. 

For a curious space of time she waited in the dusk, 
leaning against the gate. 

The fires of the sun were extinguished and dark- 
ness overspread the luminous west; the loneliness 
seemed more ominous than spying eyes, the solitude 
more threatening than menacing crowds. 

In a few moments the Duke returned in a soiled 
smock and breeches, slouch hat and latchet shoes. 

Sophia pointed out the way to him ; a vague way 
at best — across the open country. 

He held her hand at parting. 

His smock was unbuttoned over his shirt, she 
again saw the jewel on his heart. 

“You must not keep that — what is it ?” 

“ My talisman.” 

“ It will betray you.” 

“ I could not leave it.” 

She made no answer. 

He stooped and kissed her cold bare hand. 

“ God bless you, Madam.” 

No more of thanks or farewell than that and was 


SOPHIA FIELDING 


103 

gone, walking swiftly with his graceful step and 
soon lost in the dusky landscape. 

“ He has no chance at all,” said the old man who 
had returned to the gate. 

“ You must burn his clothes,” said Sophia hastily 
“ and keep silence.” 

“ He has no chance,” repeated the peasant, “ his 
death was written in his face.” 

Sophia, heavy-footed, returned to the house. 

Her brother and Captain Brabazon did not return 
that night, nor till two days after. 

Sophia had moved the portrait of herself from 
the dining-room and did not wear the festival grey 
dress in which to greet her lover. 

He was triumphant with the news of the capture 
of the Duke of Monmouth ” starving, unkempt, in 
a peasant dress, hiding in a ditch.” He had been 
one of those to seize the unfortunate Prince. 

Sophia listened to his eager recital . . . the re- 
bellion was over, Monmouth would be executed in 
London. 

“ There could be no mercy for him ?” 

11 Mercy ? — he deserved none.” 

“ No, he deserved none,” Sophia admitted. 

Later, he asked her the answer to his letter, his 
proposal ; to his great amazement Sophia, smiling 
and decided, said No. 


V.— CANDLELIGHT 


No. 302 . — A steel rapier with steel bead tassel orna- 
ments at the hilt , bearing the mark of John 
Richards, Cutler, Westernhay, City of Exeter , 
1719. English, eighteenth century . 

A lady sat at the low window of an upper room 
in a house overlooking the cathedral close, and 
looked at the twin towers of Exeter rising golden 
with sunshine against a sky of pale winter blue. 

Her face and her pose were discontented; a 
spirit of gloom and unhappiness emanated from 
her and made the rather old-fashioned, dark 
room dismal — it was obviously the dwelling of 
one careless and indifferent to external things, a 
little untidy, a little neglected, conventional in 
taste. 

Her dress was not conventional, but it was 
neglected as if it had been chosen with enthusiasm 
and worn in despair; the elaborate frills oi\ the 
skirt and bodice of red taffeta, the fine work of 
the muslin apron, the fantastic cut of the over- 
skirt of flounced coral-coloured velvet, accorded ill 
with the slatternly shoes and stockings, the soiled 
mob cap with the crumpled blue ribbon, and the 
untidy black locks neither dressed nor curled. 

104 


CANDLELIGHT 


105 


Her figure was slight, her face pleasing, and in 
some lights and by some spectacles, considered 
beautiful, but it was marred by melancholy and 
some bitterness, and her complexion had the 
unhealthy, pallid look given by an unhealthy, 
idle, and secluded life. 

Such, at twenty-seven, was Drusilla Wilmot, 
once a pretty, sparkling girl, the belle of the county 
society in which she moved. 

Disappointed ambition had soured her shallow 
nature, and the frustration of the hopes raised by 
her so-called brilliant marriage had left her dis- 
contented and rebellious. 

She had married the best match in her neighbour- 
hood, Sir Gabriel Wilmot, and it had been an affair 
of love on both sides, and, for Drusilla at least, 
full of promise, of potential happiness and coloured 
with dreams. 

It had all come to failure; there never had been 
quite enough money to satisfy her worldly vanities, 
never quite enough love and admiration to satisfy 
her jealous woman’s pride, never enough sweetness 
and kindness to make a desirable home, a common 
meeting-ground of pleasant things. 

The slender bond of a mutual passion had soon 
snapped, and for this many a year they had been 
held together only by the enduring but galling 
chain of common interest. 

By now, little would either have cared for a 
scandal, however open, that had set them free, 
but the question of money held them both 
bound. 

He could not find the sum the restitution of 


1 06 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

her dowry demanded, she would not go to live 
on some pittance dependent on the success of 
his gaming or the luck of his bets, so their life 
continued from day to day, from month to month, 
a miserable life of mock splendour, of feigned ease, 
of difficult pretension, and secret bitternesses, 
anxieties and unhappiness. 

The bitterness was entirely on Drusilla ’s part; 
Sir Gabriel had escaped that, as if, in loosening 
himself from her, he had cast from him all the 
misery of her soured temperament. 

Contented or happy he could not be, but he 
had his friends, his interests, his pleasures. 
Drusilla had none of these. 

There were few people in Exeter whom she cared 
to know, since her point of view was always clouded 
by dreams of that London which she had never 
been able to achieve, and they found in her too 
much of the country madam which she persistently 
refused to admit she had been born and bred. 

He found his place in the society of the quiet 
city, she could not. 

He had his card parties, his rides, his visits, 
she had nothing. 

He had his friendship with Miss Frances 
Tremaine, the Dean’s daughter, a friendship with- 
out reproach in the eyes of all save Drusilla — she 
had not such consolation. 

At present the sole interest in her dreary life 
was a perilous acquaintance with Lord Pawlet, 
her husband’s distant cousin and his guest. 

Justin Pawlet was a man of fashion, unattached, 
unburdened by any ties, apparently of sufficient 


CANDLELIGHT 


107 

means, and certainly of sufficient charm, to make 
life one pleasant adventure. 

Chance had brought him to Exeter and the 
society of his relative, some definite attraction 
kept him there; Drusilla was sure that this attrac- 
tion was herself. 

She had hardly the courage to admit that she 
was in love with him, so strong still was her early 
training; she did not face the future nor weigh 
the possible consequences of possible indiscretion, 
so hedged in was her nature by the mechanical 
decorum of the life she led, but she encouraged 
him furtively by every means in her power, and 
in her heart she held the terrified knowledge that 
she was on the edge of desperate things. 

Exeter did not approve of Lord Pawlet; he had 
the manner and not the background of the great 
world, his splendour consisted of words, not facts. 
After the first dazzle, sober observers wished to 
know why such a luminary had left his sphere 
to shine in such dull company, but Sir Gabriel 
upheld him and bound him to him in a quick 
and defiant friendship. 

This friendship was not wholly for the good of 
a country gentleman used to moderate ways. 
Sir Gabriel began to spend too lavishly, to waste 
too much time on cards, to exhibit a restless and 
reckless demeanour, to show distaste for the 
monotony of a country town, to further estrange 
himself from his semblance of a home. 

And Drusilla sat behind the low windows and 
moped, not because her husband neglected her, but 
because he absorbed the society of Justin Pawlet. 


108 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

As she looked out at the old placid close, the 
smooth green, the fair church, the circle of peaceful, 
dignified houses of which her unloved home formed 
part, a madness of discontent rose in her heart 
and gripped it like a physical agony. 

She wondered fiercely why she was unhappy, 
what fatal mistake had rendered her life so un- 
supportable, what false step had condemned her 
to drink the last lees of dissatisfied ambition and 
baulked desire. 

In her desperation she even thought of children — 
she had never liked or wanted them, now she 
wondered if she could have been that sort of soul, 
content with little things — at least real things. 
She had nothing, it was a shadow of a life. 

She looked sideways out of the window at Mols 
Coffee House, by the narrow passage. Her husband 
was there with Justin Pawlet — they had most of 
their food there now; Drusilla kept an untidy 
household, and her husband was glad to escape 
her melancholy presence at miserable meals, served 
by indifferent servants. 

Drusilla was not clever enough to lure Justin 
by a charming home, nor had she any longer the 
energy to change her life. 

Bitterness made her slack in mind and body. 
She shrilled complaints at the servants and suffered 
them to neglect her and rob her as much as they 
pleased. 

She told herself that if she had had the fine 
mansion of her dreams she would have been a 
regal mistress, a perfect mistress — nothing was 
worth while here, where the maids were ill-trained, 


CANDLELIGHT 


109 

the house too small, the money insufficient. It 
was the same with her appearance : what was the 
use of taking trouble when she had no woman 
to wait on her, when her gowns had to be made 
by the local mantua-maker, and she never could 
afford anything but steel buckles and imitation 
laces ? 

So acute became her sufferings as she stared 
out of the window, that she rose at last and began 
to walk up and down the room. 

The door gently opened and closed. 

Drusilla ’s wild glance of expectancy was instantly 
clouded by dull vexation. 

It was her husband’s sister, Katherine Wilmot, 
who entered. 

She had been long ago sacrificed to Drusilla’s 
ambition; when her sister-in-law refused to live 
in the country, and chose Exeter until London 
could be achieved, Wilmot House was let, and 
Kate had to follow her brother’s fortunes. 

She did not like this life which Drusilla was 
careful to render secluded and dull for her, but she 
did not complain, and out of a household so 
slatternly and uncomfortable, in which the imperi- 
ous mistress did not let her interfere by a whisper, 
she had contrived to snatch neatness and charm 
in her own person and her own apartment. 

She had no money save the small sums Sir 
Gabriel’s swift pity could now and then spare 
from his disordered finances, but her mended 
tabinets and scoured silk were always elegant, 
she wore fine lace of her own making, and fresh 
linen of her own laundering — for the rest, Drusilla 


I IO 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


dismissed her as a nonentity, and for once Exeter 
agreed with Drusilla. 

Kate Wilmot in her useless abnegation and the 
pointless monotony of her life seemed overlooked 
by God and man alike. 

Yet her personality was sweet and pleasant, 
she had the wide eyes and short features, the full 
brown curls and fresh complexion of her brother; 
but no one had ever noticed Kate, she had neither 
lovers nor friends. 

Drusilla disliked her because she did not com- 
plain; this passivity irritated her as it had long 
irritated her in Sir Gabriel. 

Yet Kate was useful in the role of stage “ confi- 
dante,” as listener and recipient of complaints 
and lamentations. 

As she entered now Drusilla eyed her sullenly. 
Kate went to a drawer in the heavy tortoise-shell 
inlaid cabinet and took out some linen needlework, 
neatly folded. 

“ Is Gabriel in ?” she asked as she seated herself 
to catch the last light. 

“ No.” Drusilla scorned to remark on the 
stupidity of the question. 

“ Nor Lord Pawlet ?” 

“ No.” 

“ They are at Mols ?” 

“ Of course — unless,” added Drusilla, “ Gabriel 
is talking piety with Frances Tremaine in the 
deanery drawing-room.” 

” I wish he were,” said Kate; she bent her glossy 
head low over her work, and her minute needle 
flew in and out industriously. 


CANDLELIGHT 


1 1 1 


“ Why ?” asked Gabriel's wife indignantly. 

It is a good influence/’ said the sister softly. 

Drusilla flushed. 

’Tis a vastly impertinent thing to say,” she 
flashed. “ Is she to have more influence than 
I ?” 

“You cannot keep him from the cards, she may,” 
replied Kate. 

She was often thus quietly frank, and Drusilla 
had grown to accept it ; though she might fume for 
a while, after all, it did not at all matter what 
Kate thought or said. 

“ Why should he be kept from his cards ?” 
asked Drusilla. 

Kate put down her sewing. 

“ Do you know what they say ?” 

“ What in particular ?” 

“ These parties — at Mols ” 

She stopped, as if awestruck. 

Drusilla was contemptuous. 

“ Well ?” 

“ Someone is cheating, they think — they sus- 
pect — — ” 

“ Gabriel ?” 

His wife brought out the word with an accent 
that was almost of joy; if the bitter monotony of 
their lives could be ended by an event that would 
ruin the husband she hated, and free her, she would 
be only pleased. 

Yet she was surprised also ; she had never thought 
of Gabriel as a card-sharper. 

“ How did you hear of this ?” she asked with 
the quiet of interest. 


I 12 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ From several — from Gabriel himself.’ ’ 

“ ’Tis strange that I did not hear anything.” 

“You were not interested.” 

“ You mistake, I am,” said Drusilla with mean- 
ing; her thoughts travelled to the person most 
constantly in her mind. “ Lord Pawlet — he knows, 
I suppose ?” 

“ He laughs — you may conceive how he laughs — 
yet it is his fault.” 

Drusilla lowered at this aspersion on her hero. 

“ It is true,” continued Kate. “ Gabriel never 
played so high before. Lord Pawlet encourages 
him — he is a great gambler.” 

“ He comes from the great world where men do 
not count their pence.” 

“ The more reason he should return there — we 
must count ours.” 

“You seem to find a pleasure in saying dis- 
agreeable things.” 

“ Drusilla, you must face the truth sometimes: 
there is not enough money for us to live as we are 
living.” 

A passionate indignation shook Drusilla. 

“ As we are living ! My God, as we are living !” 
she cried. 

“ It is mismanagement,” said Kate with un- 
ruffled calm; “ the money goes and we get nothing 
for it — for the moment Gabriel is lucky — that will 
not last; if it did, we could not live on his card- 
winnings.” 

“You think he cheats ?” asked Drusilla. 

Kate slightly winced. 

‘ I do not know,” she said deliberately. “ I 


CANDLELIGHT 113 

think he may as he sinks further into ruin and — 
dissipation. ” 

She folded up the sewing, for it was now too 
dark to see. 

** Well, prevent it,” answered Drusilla recklessly. 

I will try,” said Kate. 

Her tone made Drusilla look at her. 

“ What will you do ?” 

“ I shall speak to Lord Pawlet.” 

Instant jealousy scorched Drusilla; she dared 
not speak. 

I shall ask him to go away, to leave us alone,” 
added Kate. 

Drusilla’s bosom swelled, and the hot tears rose 
in her angry eyes. 

Was she to have her one distraction, her one 
hope, her one pleasure, snatched from her by the 
scruples of this silly girl ? 

“ He will not go,” she said heavily. 

“ There is good in him,” said Kate. “ He might 
be saved.” 

“ Saved !” sneered Drusilla. 

Kate took no notice; she knew that her sister- 
in-law scoffed at her little pretensions to godliness, 
but Kate in her small, quiet way was sincerely 
religious, her narrow and precise idea of goodness 
had the power of her personal purity and her 
ignorance; nothing could upset her ideas of right 
and wrong ; this gave her calm and a certain force 
that Drusilla sometimes vaguely felt. 

She felt it now ; she feared that Kate was capable 
of speaking to Lord Pawlet and even of sending 
him away. 


8 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


114 

Yet what opposition could she offer without 
betraying her secret? . . . 

“ They are so long bringing the lights/’ said 
Kate; 11 one loses so much time.” 

She rose and pulled the bell-rope. 

“ Let the candles be,” said Drusilla violently. 
” I am tired of the candlelight — tired !” 

She rose, stretching her arms. 

“ Now the days are so short — always the candles 
— my life is passed in candlelight — always groping 
in the half dark ” 

” And what of mine ?” asked Kate. “ But I 
will choose another chamber if you will not have 
the candles.” 

She left gently, and Drusilla was relieved by 
her going. 

Yet wholly unhappy, alone and brooding, wholly 
discontented in the darkened chamber. 

Presently, in reply to Kate’s ring, the maid 
brought in the candles. 

Drusilla shuddered before the dim, yellow light ; 
then, suddenly, as the servant left, a man entered 
with an alert step. 

The light rose in her eyes to welcome him; she 
stood foolishly. 

” Alone ?” said Lord Pawlet. 

“ In every way,” she answered. 

They stood facing each other, and he smiled 
a little. 

Her heart beat thickly, and she turned away her 
head ; her wretchedness was stirred to desperation 
by his handsome presence, his air of courage, of 
indifference, of freedom. 


CANDLELIGHT 


US 

“ You come from Mols ?” she asked. 

“ Yes — Gabriel has gone to the deanery.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Why did you not go ?” 

“ I followed my pleasure.” 

She faced him now. 

“ Did your pleasure bring you here ?” 

“ Yes,” said he. 

Drusilla wondered why her courage failed her; 
what in this moment stood between them; when 
he was beside her she was always sure they loved 
each other, yet neither ever said so. 

She looked at him with the appeal of a dumb 
animal in her brown eyes, imploring him to release 
her from the restraint in which convention held 
her mute. 

“ Poor child !” he said, and putting out his hand 
touched her cheek. 

“ Why do you pity me ?” she asked. 

This was not the level on which she wished to 
be taken. 

“ Because of Gabriel ?” she added. 

“ Gabriel is a good fellow,” he said; his hand fell 
gently to her shoulder. 

“ I wonder,” said Drusilla — ■“ have you heard 
this story of his playing false at Mols ?” she 
continued fiercely. 

My lord was visibly startled; his hand released 
her shoulder. 

“ Gabriel playing false ?” he repeated. 

“ So they say — someone cheats, and they 
think it is he, because he is poor and full of 
debts.” 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


1 1 6 

Her callous crudeness seemed to take him aback ; 
she misread his amazement. 

" Yes, we are poor,” she said defiantly. “ Your 
lordship, who is a rich man, cannot understand 
poverty." 

" You are bitter," remarked my lord. 

Stung and humiliated she turned away ; certainly 
she loved him; why did not something happen — 
how did women take that step out of the cage of 
decorum ? 

My lord was looking at her earnestly. 

" Perhaps you have reason to be bitter," he 
said gently. 

Drusilla could not answer; she seated herself 
at some distance from him and stared at his 
handsome face ; the dimness of the candlelight 
vexed her; it seemed to hang between them, 
like a veil that she longed to tear aside. 

" You do not believe this about Gabriel ?" he 
asked keenly. 

She was angry that he should mention her 
husband, especially in this tone of friendship. 

“ Does Miss Wilmot believe it ?" added my 
lord. 

"What does that matter?" flared Drusilla; 
these two, her husband and his sister, seemed to 
stand between her and her desires — even in these 
few moments they intruded. 

" I am Sir Gabriel’s friend," said Justin Pawlet 
thoughtfully. 

" Why do you remind me of that ?" she de- 
manded. 

He came towards her. 


CANDLELIGHT 


ii 7 

“ I believe that you would be glad if it were 
true/’ he said. 

Drusilla lifted her head to face him. 

Perhaps I should,” she answered. “ Perhaps 
I should be glad of anything that set me free from 
this life.” 

He spake curiously. 

“ How could it set you free ?” 

“ Would you consider me bound to a dishonoured 
man as I am bound to an honourable one ? — to a 
card-sharper as I am to a gentleman ?” she 
demanded. 

“ No,” he said. “ No.” 

Drusilla rose impatiently; her unhealthy pallor 
was flushed and her eyes were bright and sparkling. 

” Do you not understand me ?” she asked, and 
there was something piteous in her eagerness, 
in the stumbling waste of her words. 

He put his hand where it had rested before, on 
her thin shoulder where the dark curls fell in 
disorder. 

“ Poor child !” he said; his dark face was slightly 
flushed. 

She looked at him with defiant eyes. 

” Well ?” she said with trembling lips. 

She thought that it was surely her moment, 
that he would take her to his heart and comfort 
her, that she would taste the joy of his comfort, 
of his praises, of his sympathy; more than 
ever before she believed that they loved each 
other. 

The door was opened swiftly, and Kate Wilmot 
entered. 


1 1 8 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

My lord stood unmoved, but Drusilla, shrinking 
away from under his touch, shivered and whitened 
with wrath. 

“ Gabriel has not returned,” said Kate. <( Shall 
we dine without him ?” 

Drusilla turned her head away in silence; she 
believed that Kate had purposely interrupted 
these precious moments, that she had seen their 
faces and understood their thoughts, and was 
resolved to thwart them, and she hated Kate 
with an implacable hatred. 

Lord Pawlet remained composed. 

“ Shall we not wait a little ?” he said. 

” As you please,” answered Kate; she seated 
herself by the candles and drew from her capacious 
pocket the neat length of embroidery. 

Drusilla saw that she was determined not to 
leave them, and her heart swelled with impotent 
fury. 

My lord glanced at Drusilla, but spoke to Kate. 

“ I purchased a new sword to-day,” he said, and 
unbuckled it to show. 

Kate put down her work. 

“ At the shop in the Western Hay ?” she asked; 
she took the slender weapon in her slender hands 
and looked at it with gentle eyes. 

” Yes — it is an elegant French make.” 

Kate admired it; she ran her finger down the 
shining length of the smooth scabbard and over 
the pierced pattern of the guard, then took up 
one by one the tassels of steel beads which hung 
from the hilt. 

“ You look thoughtful,” smiled my lord. 


CANDLELIGHT 


1 19 

She raised candid eyes. 

“ I am thoughtful.” 

Drusilla could not endure to sit watching; she 
knew that Kate was not afraid of her, and would 
deliver her lecture to Lord Pawlet in Drusilla’s 
own presence if need be. 

And she, through being Gabriel’s wife, through 
lack of wit, of daring, through ignorance of how 
to handle the situation, would have to sit silent. 
But she knew other ways of defeating both Kate 
and Gabriel. 

With a swift and passionate look at my lord, 
she left the room. 

With unsteady steps she turned into the dining- 
room; the supper was already laid. 

Drusilla looked with sick distaste at the dish of 
cold ham garnished with cabbage, at the hacked 
loaf, the stained decanters, the carelessly-placed 
plates and glasses. 

If she could get away — if she could end it — in any 
fashion. 

Near the window stood a card-table; Drusilla 
went to this and stood a moment, then snatched 
open a drawer — and took out a pack of cards. 

She hastily selected the ace of spades, thrust 
it into the bosom of her dress and returned the 
rest to the table-drawer, which she locked. 

Then she snatched one of the candles from 
the brass sconce above her head, and holding it 
in her bare hands she ran with a fierce and evil 
swiftness up the stairs to her husband’s dressing- 
room. 

Her flaring flame showed her what she came to 


120 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


seek — the clothes her husband wore in the evening 
lying across the chair by the door to the powder- 
closet. 

She steadied herself and placed the candle 
cautiously on the dressing-table, that she might 
not betray herself by a trail of spilt wax. 

Then, taking up Sir Gabriel’s rose-coloured 
waistcoat, she ripped open a portion of the lining 
and slipped in the ace of spades. 

She had scarcely hung the garment back when 
she heard Sir Gabriel’s step on the stair and his 
voice humming a little song. 

In silent terror she caught up her light and fled 
across the landing to her own chamber. 

She tried not to think what she had done — a 
foolish trick, a stupid, vulgar trick, the trick of 
a malicious child — yet it might serve. 

Presently she heard my lord, whose chamber 
lay through her husband’s, come upstairs, and 
then their voices as they laughed and talked 
together. 

Then they went down together, and the front 
door closed. 

She rushed to the window and saw the two 
cloaked figures cross the close and disappear into 
the lighted door of Mols Coffee House. 

Now she was afraid lest he had not changed his 
clothes. 

It was not likely, as he was particular in his 
dress, but she could not rest unitl she was sure; 
softly she tiptoed back into his room. 

The rose-coloured waistcoat, and the red cloth 
suit that had been lying with it, were gone. 


CANDLELIGHT 


I 2 I 


But she was startled by seeing on the couch 
another waistcoat of much the same shade. 

A quick examination showed her that this was* 
not the garment in which she had placed the card, 
and she crept downstairs satisfied. 

The engraved face of the tall clock in the hall 
told her that she had been upstairs for more than 
an hour. 

Kate had eaten her supper and was quietly a! 
work in the drawing-room. 

Drusilla looked at the food with loathing. She 
felt strangely sick and faint, her hands and feet^ 
were very cold. . . . 

She tried to collect her thoughts clearly, and to 
review what she had done and what she must yet 
do. 

She did not repent her action, but already she 
was afraid of what the consequences might be 
to herself. She believed that Justin Pawlet would 
despise her if he knew, and she began to plan what 
her behaviour must be, so that he would never 
guess. 

With futile cunning she tried to convince herself 
that she had done no wrong. 

Sir Gabriel was a cheat — even Kate thought so 
— and she had but dragged his disgrace into the 
light. 

Now surely my lord would pity her, now she 
would be free to go to him . . . perhaps he would 
take her to London — or abroad. 

“ Anywhere — out of the candlelight,’ 1 said 
Drusilla. Then, with a feverish sharpening of 
her wits, she considered how to complete her 


122 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

deliverance, which was certainly not yet 
achieved. 

Selecting from her desk a sheet of ordinary 
paper, such as might be used by anyone, she cut 
a new quill and wrote laboriously with her left 
hand these words : 

“ You will find the cheat you have been looking 
for in the man who wears the rose-pink waistcoat.” 

Carefully folding this and sealing it with a plain 
pink wafer, which she selected because she had 
no others of that colour, she ran upstairs and put 
on her darkest hood and cloak. 

As she was leaving the house she had to pass 
the open door of the drawing-room. 

As she crept, trembling, past the long bar of 
light, she had a strange sight of Kate. 

The girl was on her knees beside the low music- 
stool in front of the old spinet. Her hands were 
clasped on the worn brocade and her face was 
turned upwards, and gently illuminated by the 
candlelight. 

Even to her sister-in-law’s eyes she looked 
beautiful in that moment. 

Drusilla fled. 

She shrank before the fresh outer air and the 
vague lights of the close* and stood for a moment 
irresolute, crouching in tfie shadow of her own 
porch, the wind blowing her hood down on her 
hot face. Confusion had fallen on her well- 
natured plans; she felt focfish and incapable of 
any kind of action. 

She did not even know to whom to deliver the 
letter. 


CANDLELIGHT 


123 


Then the light in the old low windows of Mols 
Coffee House shone clearly at her through the 
dimmer light and the shadows. 

She moved towards it. 

Creeping on to the grass of the cathedral yard, 
she came, always in shadow, opposite this light 
which came from the upper window of the big 
public room, the old panelled room that had seen 
many generations come and go. 

Voices and the little sounds of people moving — 
the creak of a chair, the movement of a glass, 
came out to Drusilla ; on the. low ceiling she could 
see monstrous shadows flung, the outlines of 
gigantic perukes and shoulder-knots. 

They were, she thought, playing already. 

Swiftly she crossed the road and hid herself 
in the porch of St. Martin’s Church, while she 
further considered what she had in hand. 

It occurred to her to deliver her note to the Dean’s 
son if he was of the company — there would be 
a pleasure in making the brother of Frances 
Tremaine the instrument of Gabriel’s ruin. 

While her courage lasted she faced the light and 
noise of the coffee-house, and pushing open the 
door stood within, hooded and cloaked beyond 
recognition. 

A drawer stood within the door. 

“ Is Mr. Tremaine upstairs ?” asked Drusilla. 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ Give him this note as quickly as may be,” 
said Drusilla, and hastened away. 

When she was once more in the open-air she 
had a feeling of having acquired another personality 


124 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


— she was no longer the nonentity she had been 
till this evening. 

“ I suppose I am a wicked woman, a wicked 
woman,” she said to herself; she was angry that 
this thought came, but she could not dismiss it — 
she was wicked, different, changed. 

She wanted to go on her knees and pray to the 
God whom she had always scoffed at, that Justin 
Pawlet might never know what she had done; at 
the same time she was fiercely ready to justify 
herself before all the world. 

As she returned furtively to her own home, she 
wondered, with an unpleasant wonder, why Kate, 
sober, undemonstrative Kate, who prayed at 
certain times and in certain places, as her bedside 
and the cathedral aisle, should have been on her 
knees before the harpsichord. 

What was the nature of her petition to the 
Heaven she thought so near ? 

Drusilla did not care to think, for she believed 
that it was in some way connected with herself 
and Lord Pawlet. 

Slowly she dragged her unwilling feet up to the 
drawing-room. 

Time had become suddenly terrible, a burden 
and a menace — she could not do anything, she 
could not sleep; she must wait till something 
happened. 

Unsuspecting and serene, Kate sat in the candle- 
light; there was no work in her hands now. 

The yellow light and luminous shadows softened 
her shabby gown of green chintz, and gave a 
fresh softness to a face in itself soft. 


CANDLELIGHT 


125 

Drusilla had flung off her cloak in the hall, and 
entered as if from the supper-room. 

“ I wish to speak to you, Drusilla.’ ’ 

Kate spoke earnestly, her eyes, her sister-in- 
law noticed, were shining with excitement. 

She seemed like one who has meditated on good 
news till their happiness is touched with exultation. 

Drusilla too was excited, with a sick, heavy 
agitation that scarcely allowed her to speak. 

She nodded, seating herself by the unshuttered 
window where she could see the light in Mols 
Coffee House. 

“ I want to tell you,” said Kate, very seriously 
and softly, almost with the manner of one approach- 
ing a sacred subject, “ about Gabriel.” 

Drusilla made a little sound; it astonished her 
how dry her throat had become, and what a diffi- 
culty she had in finding words. 

“ It is quite untrue about the cards,” continued 
Kate. “ Gabriel is quite guiltless of the least 
suspicion of such a thing.” 

Drusilla winced before this certainty. 

“ How do you know ?” she jerked out. 

“ I must not tell you — yet, at least — but I do 
know. You may believe me.” 

Drusilla did believe her, and sat dumb and help- 
less before this belief. 

Yet she sought wildly for words with which 
to deny what Gabriel’s sister said. 

Kate, wrapped in a strong, inner feeling of her 
own, did not notice the other's agitation. 

“ And to-morrow,” she added, “ Lord Pawlet 
goes away.” 


126 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


All Drusilla’s strained and stifled feelings merged 
now into hatred of this quiet girl. 

“ What has he to do with it ?” she asked 
violently. 

“ He leaves/’ said Kate, “ and therefore there 
is no need to talk of him further.” 

“ What right have you to interfere with my 
guest ?” asked Drusilla. 

“ I asked him to go.” 

“ I know . . . how dare you ! . . .” 

“ It was better he should go.” 

“ He shall not go — but you sooner, you intolerable 
creature !” 

“ Why,” asked Kate calmly, “ should you wish 
him to remain ?” 

Drusilla looked at her and then laughed ex- 
citedly; after all her trouble — why this fret 
about to-morrow — to-morrow everything would 
be changed. 

“You are a silly girl,” she said wildly, “ and 
understand nothing. To-morrow brings another 
day — we shall see to-morrow, you and I.” 

Kate curiously regarded her. 

“ I think you are not well,” she said. “ You 
look as if you had the fever.” 

Again Drusilla laughed; she felt drowsy now 
and heavy-headed, almost as if she could sleep. 

She rose. 

“ I shall go to bed — they may not be home till 
dawn.” 

“ It is for the last time,” said Kate. 

“ The last time,” echoed Drusilla. 

Slowly she left the room and went upstairs; 


CANDLELIGHT 


127 


Kate took her place and gazed at the light in 
Mols Coffee House. 

Upstairs Drusilla, dishevelled, shaken, craving 
for oblivion, slept. 

All her strength slipped from her, and she fell 
into the deep slumber of nervous exhaustion, 
passing into a world of confusion and feverish 
dreams of bitter horror. 

Downstairs, Kate, cold in every limb, with the 
candles going out about her, watched the light 
that came from the room where Justin Pawlet 
was. 

Drusilla’s parting words echoed in her tired 
brain. 

“ The last time.” 

To-morrow he would be gone; it was not likely 
that she would either see him or hear from him 
again; she had sent him from her narrow circle 
where she was imprisoned — once sent away he 
would not return. 

Only now did Kate realise what life might be, 
and by this wild revelation what it was and what 
it must be, when he had gone. 

Yet it was best he should go, she never faltered 
from that — best for Gabriel and Drusilla, for her 
and for himself. 

And he had her prayers, her meditations; she 
could escape into inner regions of the soul; there 
she had the advantage of Drusilla. 

She pitied Drusilla. 

The cathedral clock struck one, and Kate, too, 
fell asleep at the useless vigil, a piteous, chilled 
figure with fallen head, huddled in the window-seat. 


128 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


A violent knocking at the door roused both 
these women. 

Kate woke first, and instantly remembered 
everything; she glanced at the light in the Coffee 
House; it was still there; the same second she 
was aware of another light, the glare of flaming 
pine knots without cast into the darkness of the 
room where the candles had long since gutted 
out, and voices, hushed yet impatient, and now 
and then breaking into loud speech. 

Drusilla heard, and remembered nothing. In a 
fury of panic she flung herself from the bed and 
rushed downstairs, haunted by the ugly after- 
horror of dreams. 

She met Kate in the hall; then she remembered. 

“ Gabriel has come home/' she said. 

“ Something has happened,” said Kate. 

She was unfastening the door and shivering in 
the cold air of the passage. 

Drusilla leant against the wall and began to 
put her hair up, finding the pins in the fallen masses 
of tangled curls. 

The door opened on a glare of torchlight and the 
bitter chill of night. 

A group of men, all indistinct and blurred with 
light and shadow, stood without; one, a falling, 
dragging figure, was being supported by the 
others. 

Drusilla heard the words “ a duel ” — “ it was 
all over in five minutes,” and ” My God 1 does 
no one know of a surgeon ?” and the group 
tramped past Kate and into the hall, clumsily 
dragging their burden. 


CANDLELIGHT 


129 


She saw it all very clearly ; there was no confusion 
in her mind now, it worked with great lucidity. 
Gabriel had fought, had been wounded, was dying 
— her freedom was more complete than she had 
ever hoped or guessed — this was indeed the end 
of his life and hers — the end. 

She continued putting up her hair, not knowing 
what she was doing. 

The torches had to be put out in the hall; 
darkness engulfed them all. 

“ Candles ! Candles !” came excited voices. 

“ Always candlelight,” said Drusilla hysterically. 

Kate felt her way into the dining-room and lit 
the candles on the table; the procession followed 
her, coming heavily with their burden, Drusilla 
at their heels. 

She noticed the uncleared table, left under 
the pretence that Sir Gabriel might return, the 
ham, the loaf, the soiled glasses, the disarranged 
cloth, the stained plates. 

“ But this is the end,” she repeated. She bent 
forward to stare at the wounded man; he who 
supported him suddenly looked up at her, and she 
stared into her husband’s face. 

“ Why — you — you,” she said, pointing at him 
” You — you ” 

Sir Gabriel lifted higher the man he was holding 
up under the arm-pits. 

“ Have you nothing ?” he asked. “ Nothing ?” 

He stared round with a fierce helplessness. 

“ The couch,” said one. 

There the wounded man was dragged and ex- 
tended. Drusilla saw that he wore a rose-coloured 

9 


130 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

waistcoat, then as they held the snatched-up 
candles near his face she saw that it was Justin 
Pawlet. 

“ Gabriel did it?” she asked eagerly; her first 
thought was that, to implicate her husband. 

“ No — young Tremaine — it was cards — he was 
suspected. Tremaine flung it in his face — we 
found the ace of spades in his waistcoat — Tremaine 
struck him — they fought at once — by candlelight — 
he’s done for — perhaps better so.” 

These words, flung to her by one of the excited 
young men, flushed with wine and horror, showed 
the truth to Drusilla. 

Lord Pawlet shared her husband’s dressing- 
room, his waistcoat, flung on top of her husband’s 
clothes, had deceived her — she had put the card 
into the wrong man’s garment. 

And now he was dying of it, while Gabriel stood 
over him, untouched. . . . 

Kate had brought some clove cordial, all she had. 

” It does not matter,” said one compassionately. 
” It is not any use.” 

Justin Pawlet writhed on the worn damask 
cushions; he had been thrust through the lungs 
and was bleeding inwardly. 

“ Kate, come here,” he whispered. 

She came at once and knelt beside him; the 
others fell back a little as before one who had a 
right. 

“ Girl,” said he, trying to gaze at her with his 
agonised eyes. “ I told you to-day — I was a 
cheat ” 


CANDLELIGHT 


131 

She bent her head. 

“ That I lived by it — but I promised ” 

She supplied what he would have said. 

“You promised me that you would go away 
when I told you that your dishonour was being 
put to Gabriel — my lord, you promised me — and 
I believed you.” 

“ Why ?” gasped my lord. 

They raised him a little that he might look at 
her, so obviously were his thoughts with her and 
with no one else present. 

She took his chilled hand between her two cold 
palms, and looked at him very curiously, bending 
her distorted face above his distorted face. 

“ Because I loved you,” she said. 

He made a movement with his head, as if he 
said, tl I know.” 

tl I love you,” she repeated. “ Do you like to 
hear it ?” 

Again that faint movement of assent; then he 
gathered strength to speak. 

“ Child — I did not cheat to-night — I kept my 
word — that fool, Tremaine — someone set him on 

me — the ace — that dug my grave ” His dying 

eyes fixed her with a passionate force; he tried to 
raise himself a little. “ Before God I know 
nothing of it !” 

For a second his voice was the voice of a strong 
man, then he collapsed, and her arms were about 
him. 

“ I believe you,” she said loudly. 

He tried to speak again, but the blood came to 


132 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

his lips, and as she pressed him close, stained her 
bosom. 

Drusilla crept closer to watch him die. 

* * * * * 

Again the shadows invaded the house in the 
cathedral close; Drusilla sat again alone in the 
drawing-room; Kate was in the burial-ground of 
St. Mary Major, standing by the grave of a dis- 
graced adventurer; Gabriel was with Frances 
Tremaine, with whom he had arranged her brother’s 
escape to France; the tragedy had brought them 
very close together. 

Drusilla had never spoken ; her silence had 
branded Justin Pawlet with a deathbed lie; she 
never would speak, but she knew that this could 
not hurt Kate, Kate who had loved and believed. 

It was out of her power to hurt Kate or Gabriel 
as it was out of her power to help herself. 

As she sat shivering in her dreariness, the 
slatternly maid brought in the candlelight ! 


VI.— THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 


No. 353 . — A Lady's Fan in chicken skin, painted 
with Cupids encircling a river scene. Period , 
French, late eighteenth century. 

Claude Bowcher found himself awaiting with 
increasing dread the approach of the 12th of 
December. 

He still called it December to himself ; the new 
names of the divisions of the years of liberty had 
never taken root in his heart, which remained 
faithful to many of the old traditions. 

Yet he was a good servant of the new Republic, 
and had so far escaped peril during perilous times 
without sinking into servile insignificance. 

He was a clerk in the Chamber of Deputies, 
well paid and unmolested; from the safe vantage 
of a dignified obscurity he watched greater men 
come and go, and ate his supper and smoked his 
pipe in peace while the death-carts went to and 
from the prisons and the Place de la Revolution, 
which Bowcher, in his mind, thought of as the 
Place du Louis XVI. 

He had his ambitions, but he held them sus- 
pended till safer times; he was not the man for 
a brilliant, fiery career ending in the guillotine; 
133 


134 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


he was not, either, pessimistic; a better epoch, he 
would declare, would certainly emerge from the 
present confusion (he refused to accept it as 
anything else), which could but be regarded as 
the birth throes of a settled state. 

Therefore, being young and calm, and having 
lost nothing by the upheaval of society, he waited, 
as he felt he could afford to wait, until the order 
of things was once more stable and established. 
The horrors that had washed, like a sea of filth 
and blood, round his safety had scarcely touched 
him; this terror he felt at looking forward to the 
1 2th of December was the first fear that he had 
ever known. 

A fear unreasonable and by no means to be 
explained. 

The first and main cause of his dread was a 
trifle, an affair so slight that when he had first 
heard of it he had put it from his mind as a thing 
of no importance. 

One of the Deputies of Lille had put his finger 
on a conspiracy in the Department of Bearn, 
involving several names that had hitherto passed 
as those of good friends of the Republic. 

The matter did not loom large, but required 
some delicacy in the handling. The Deputy for 
the Department concerned was away, no steps 
were to be taken until his return, which would 
be on the 12th of December; then Bowcher, as 
a man reliable and trustworthy, was to carry all 
papers relating to the alleged conspiracy to his 
house at St. Cloud. 

At first the young clerk had thought nothing of 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 135 

this, then he had been rather pleased at the slight 
importance the mission gave him. 

That night, over his supper in the little cafe 
in the Rue St. Germains, he began to think of 
Ambrosine, who had long been a forbidden 
memory. 

She was a little actress in a light theatre that 
existed during the days of the Terror like a 
poisonous flower blooming on corruption. 

She had lived in a little house on the way to 
St. Cloud, a house on the banks of the river, an 
innocent and modest-looking place to shelter 
Ambrosine, who was neither innocent nor modest. 

Claude Bowcher had loved her, and every night 
after she had finished her part in the wild and 
indecent performance, he would drive her home 
in a little yellow cabriolet which had once belonged 
to a lady of fashion. 

They had been quite happy; she was certainly 
fond of Claude, and, he believed, faithful to him; 
he had rivals, and it flattered him to take her away 
from these and make her completely his, almost 
subservient to him; she was only a child of the 
gutters of St. Antoine, but she was graceful and 
charming, and endearing, too, in her simplicity and 
ardour, which she preserved despite her manifold 
deceits and vices. 

She was not beautiful, but she had dark blue 
eyes, and kept her skin lily pale, and her hair was 
wonderful, and untouched by bleach or powder; 
fair and thick and uncurling, yet full with a natural 
ripple, she kept it piled carelessly high with such 
fantastic combs as she could afford, and from these 


1 36 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

it fell continually on to her thin bosom and slant- 
ing shoulders. 

Claude, sitting in his cafe, remembered this 
fair hair, and how it would fly about her when she 
ran from the stage, flushed, panting, half naked 
from the dance by which she had amused men 
inflamed with blood. 

He thought: “ To take those papers I shall have 
to pass the house where she lived ” 

He checked himself; then his thought continued: 
“ Where she died.” 

Ambrosine had been murdered three years ago. 

One day in winter she had not appeared at the 
theatre. As there was a new topical song for her to 
learn, they had sent a messenger to the little house 
on the river. 

He found her in her bed-gown on the floor of 
her bed-chamber, stabbed through and through 
the fragile body. 

The house was in confusion, and had been 
stripped of its few poor valuables. 

No one knew anything; the house was lonely, 
and Ambrosine lived alone; the old woman who 
worked for her came in for a portion of the day 
only. 

It was found that she had no friends or relatives, 
and that no one knew her real name — she was just 
a waif from the Faubourg St. Antoine. 

That night Claude went to see her ; they had 
quarrelled a little, and for two days he had kept 
away. 

Rough care had disposed her decently on the 
tawdry silks of the canopied bed ; she was covered 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 137 

to the chin, and her face, bruised and slightly 
distorted, had the aggrieved look of a startled 
child. 

Her hair was smoothed and folded like a pillow 
beneath her head, her little peaked features looked 
insignificant beside this unchanged splendour of 
her hair. 

As Claude looked at her he wondered how he 
could have ever loved her — a creature so thin, so 
charmless; his one desire was to forget her, for she 
now seemed something malignant. 

He paid what was needful to save her from a 
pauper’s burial and went back to Paris to forget. 
No one found it difficult to forget Ambrosine; 
her obscene tragedy troubled no one, there was 
too much else happening in France. 

Thieves had obviously murdered her for her few 
possessions; it was left at that, for no one really 
cared. 

The Faubourg St. Antoine could provide plenty 
such as she. 

For a while she held Claude at night; with the 
darkness would come her image, holding him off 
sleep. 

Always he saw her dead, with the strained, 
half-open lips, the half-closed, fixed eyes, the thin 
nose, and the cheeks and chin of sharp delicacy 
outlined against the pillow of yellow hair. 

Always dead. Again and again he tried to picture 
her living face, her moving form, but he could not 
capture them. 

He could not recall the feel of her kisses or her 
warm caresses, but the sensation of her cold yet 


1 38 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

soft dead cheek as he had felt it beneath a furtive 
touch was long with him. 

But after a while he escaped from Ambrosine; 
he forgot. 

Now, as he remembered the way his route took 
him on the 12th of December, he remembered. 

Not that he had any horror of the house or the 
locality — it simply had not happened that he had 
ever had occasion to go there since her death. 
Probably there were other people living there 
now, or the house might even be destroyed — in 
any case he would take a detour round the deserted 
Park. 

But it was absurd to suppose that he was afraid 
of that house or unwilling to pass the way he had 
last passed coming from her deathbed. It was 
all over and he had forgotten. 

So he assured himself; yet he began to recall 
Ambrosine, and always with a sensation of faint 
horror. 

That night was the beginning of his fear. 

He went home late to his lodging near the 
cafe and, on sleeping, dreamt, very exactly, this 
dream, which had the clearness and force of a 
vision. 

He dreamt that it was the 12th of December, 
and that he was riding towards St. Cloud, carry- 
ing the papers he was to take to the Bearnais 
Deputy. 

It was a cold, clear, melancholy afternoon, and 
the silence of dreams encompassed him as he 
rode. 

When he reached the great iron gates of the 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 139 

dismantled Park, his horse fell lame. He was not 
very far from his destination, and he decided to go 
on on foot. 

Leaving his horse at a little inn, he struck out 
across the Park. 

He saw it all perfectly plainly — the great 
avenues of leafless trees, the stretches of green 
sward scattered with dead leaves, the carp ponds 
and fountains with their neglected statues and 
choked basins, the parterres where flowers had 
bloomed not so long ago, and that now looked as 
utterly decayed, and to his right, as he walked, 
always the pale glimpse of the river, shining in 
between the trees. 

Now, as he proceeded and the dusk began to 
fill the great Park with shadows, he was aware of 
a companion walking at his side, step for step 
with him. He could not discern the head and face 
of this man, which seemed inextricably blended 
with the shadows, but he saw that he wore a green 
coat with dark blue frogs. 

And he at once began to conceive of this, com- 
panion a horror and dread unspeakable. He 
hastened his steps, but the other, with the silent 
precision of dreams, was ever beside him; the 
day had now faded to that fixed, colourless light 
which is the proper atmosphere of visions, and 
the trees and grass were still, the water without 
a ripple. 

They came now, Claude and the figure that 
dogged him, to a flat carp-basin, dried and lined 
with green moss. 

A group of trees overshadowed it with bare 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


140 

branches, a straight stone figure rose behind, 
faceless and ominous. 

Claude did not remember this place, well-known 
as was St. Cloud to him. 

His companion stopped, and bent down to 
adjust the buckle of his shoe. 

Claude longed to hasten on, but could not move; 
the other rose, took his hand and led him hurriedly 
across the dry grass. 

They approached the bank of the river and a 
house that stood there, on the confines of the Park. 

Claude knew the house. 

It was shuttered as when he had seen it on his 
last visit to Ambrosine. 

The garden was a mass of tangled weeds — he 
noticed a bramble that barred the door across 
and across. 

“ They did not find the place so easy to let,” 
he found himself saying. 

His companion released him, and, wrenching 
off the rotting shutter of one of the lower windows, 
climbed into the house. 

Claude, impelled against his will, followed. 

He saw, very distinctly (as, indeed, he had seen 
everything very distinctly in his dream), the 
dreadful, bare, disordered room of Ambrosine. 

Then a deeper and more utter horror descended 
on him. 

He knew suddenly, and with utter conviction, 
that he was with the murderer of Ambrosine. 

And while he formed a shriek, the creature 
came at him with raised knife, and had him by 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 141 

the throat, and he knew that he was being killed 
as she had been killed, that their two fates were 
bound together, and that her destiny, from which he 
had tried to free himself, had closed on him also. 

This being the culmination of the dream, he 
woke; he slept no more till morning, and even in 
the daylight hours the dream haunted him with 
a great and invincible dread. 

It was the more horrible that reality mingled 
with it — remembrance of days that had really 
existed were blended with remembrance of that 
dreadful day of the dream, recollections of Ambro- 
sine were blended with that vision of her deserted 
home. 

The past and the dream became one, rendering 
the dead woman an object of horror, hateful and 
repellent. 

He could not without a shudder recall her gayest 
moments, or think of the little theatre where she 
used to act. 

So three days passed, and then he dreamt the 
dream again. 

In every detail he went through it as he had been 
before, and by no effort could he awake until the 
dream was accomplished and he was in the grip 
of the murderer of Ambrosine, with the steel 
descending into his side. 

And the day of his journey was now only a 
week off; he hardly thought of trying to evade it, 
of pleading illness, or asking another to take his 
place ; it was part of the horror of the thing that 
he felt that it was inevitable that he should go — 


142 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


that his journey was not to be evaded by any 
effort, however frantic, that he might make. 

Besides, he had his sane, reasonable moments 
when he was able to see the folly of being troubled 
by a dream which had recalled a little dancer 
with whom he had once been in love, and involved 
her with a certain journey near her dwelling that 
he was bound to make. 

That was what it came to — just a dream, and 
a recollection. 

He argued in these quiet moments that it was 
not strange that his purposed journey to St. Cloud 
should arouse memories of Ambrosine, and that 
the two should combine in a dream. 

He distracted himself by taking a deeper interest 
in the wild, fierce life of Paris, by listening to all 
the tragedies daily recounted, by visiting all the 
quarters most lawless and most distressed. One 
day he even went — for the first time — to watch 
the executions. 

This real horror would check, he thought, the 
fanciful horror that haunted him. 

But the first victim he saw was a young girl with 
hands red from the cold, a strained mouth and fair 
hair turned up on her small head; her eyes, over 
which the dullness of death seemed to have already 
passed, stared in the direction of Claude. He 
turned away with a movement so rough that the 
crowd, pressing round him, protested fiercely. 

Claude strode through the chill and windy 
streets of Paris and thought of the approaching 
1 2th of December as of the day of his death. So 
intense became his agitation that he turned 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 143 

instinctively towards his one friend, as one being 
enclosed in darkness will turn towards the one 
light. 

Ren6 Legarais was his fellow clerk and his first 
confidant and counsellor — a man a few years 
older than himself, and, like himself, sober, quiet, 
industrious, and well balanced. 

Claude found his lodging near the Pre-aux- 
Clercs empty; R.ene was yet at the Chamber. 

Claude waited ; he found himself encouraged 
even by the sight of the cheerful, familiar room, 
with books, and lamp, and fire, and the coffee- 
service waiting for his friend’s return. 

He now tried hard to reason himself out of his 
folly. 

He would tell Rene, and with the telling he 
would see the absurdity of the whole thing, and 
they would laugh it away together over a glass 
of wine. 

Rene, he remembered, had also been in love with 
Ambrosine, but in a foolish, sentimental fashion — 
Claude smiled to think it, but he believed that 
Rene had been ready to marry the little creature. 
She had even favoured his respectful wooing (so 
gossip said) until Claude had appeared, with bolder 
methods, and his vivid good looks, and his lavish 
purse. 

Rene had retired with the best of grace, and that 
was all long ago and forgotten by both; Claude 
wondered why he thought of it now, sitting here 
in the warmth and light. 

Only because he was unnerved and unstrung 
and obsessed by that weird dream. 


144 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Rene came home at his usual hour, flushed by 
the sharp wind and shaking the raindrops from 
his frieze coat. 

He was a pale young man with heavy brown 
hair, insignificant features, and a mole on his 
upper lip. 

He looked unhealthy and pensive, and wore 
horn-rimmed glasses when he worked. 

“ Where were you this afternoon ?” he asked. 
11 Your desk was empty.” 

” I was not well,” said Claude. 

Rene gave him a quick glance. 

Claude looked well enough now, a colour from 
the fire in his handsome brown face, his slim figure 
stretched at ease in the deep armed leather chair 
and a half mocking smile on his lips. 

“ I went to see the executions,” he added. 

” Bah !” said Rene. 

He came to the fire and warmed his hands, 
which were stiff and red with cold ; they reminded 
Claude of the hands of the girl whom he had seen 
on the platform of the guillotine. 

lt It is the first time,” replied Claude, “ and I 
shall not go again.” 

“ I have never been,” said Rene. 

“ There was a girl there,” Claude could not keep 
it off his tongue. 

“ There always are girls, I believe.” 

“ She was quite young.” 

” Yes ?” Rene looked up, aware that interest 
was expected of him. 

And thin — like Ambrosine.” 

1 Ambrosine ?” 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 145 

“ You remember,” said Claude impatiently, 
“ the little dancer ... at St. Cloud.” 

“Oh — whatever made you think of her?” 
R£n6 looked relieved, as if he had expected some- 
thing far more portentous and terrible. 

“ That is what I wish to know — what has made 
me think of her ? I believed that I had for- 
gotten.” 

44 I had, certainly.” 

44 So had I.” 

“ What has reminded you ?” 

Claude struggled with his trouble, which now 
seemed to him ridiculous. 

“ I have to go to St. Cloud,” he said at last. 

44 When ?” 

44 The 12th.” 

44 On business of the Chamber ?” 

44 Yes.” 

41 And this reminded you ?” 

44 Yes — you see,” explained Claude slowly, 44 I 
have not been there since.” 

44 Not since ?” Ren 6 pondered, and seemed to 
understand. 

44 And lately I have had a dream.” 

44 Oh, dreams,” said Ren£; he lifted his shoulders 
lightly and turned from the fire. 

44 Do you dream ?” asked Claude, reluctant 
to enter on the subject, yet driven to seek the 
relief of speech. 

44 Who does not dream — now — in Paris ?” 

Claude thought of the thin girl on the steps of 
the guillotine. 

44 There is good matter for dreams in Paris,” 

10 


1 46 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

he admitted, adding gloomily, “ I wish that I 
had not been to the executions.’ * 

Ren6 was making the coffee; he laughed good- 
naturedly. 

“ Come, Claude, what is the matter with you ? 
What have you on your conscience ?” 

“ Ambrosine.” 

Rene lifted his brows. 

“ Have you not found, in Paris, in three years, 
a woman to make you forget Ambrosine, poor 
little fool ?” 

“ I had forgotten,” said Claude fiercely, “ but 
this cursed journey — and this cursed dream — 
made me remember.” 

“You are nervous, over- worked,” replied his 
friend; it was quite true, that in these few weeks 
Claude had been working with a desperate energy ; 
he snatched eagerly at the excuse. 

“ Yes, yes, that is it . . . but the times . . . 
enough to unnerve any man — death and ruin 
on either side and the toils closing on so many one 
knew.” 

R£n£ poured out the coffee, took his cup and 
settled himself comfortably in the armchair oppo- 
site Claude. He drank and stretched his limbs with 
the satisfaction of a man pleasantly tired. 

“ After all, you need not take this journey,” 
he said thoughtfully; “ there are a dozen would 
do it for you.” 

“ That is just it — I feel impelled to go, as if no 
effort of mine would release me ” — he hesitated a 
moment, then added: “ That is part of the horror 
of it.” 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 147 

“ The horror ?” 

“ Of the whole thing — do you not see the 
horror ?” asked Claude impatiently. 

“ My dear fellow, how can I, when you have not 
told me what this wonderful dream is about ?” 

Claude flushed, and looked into the fire; after 
all, he thought, Rene was too commonplace to 
understand his ghostly terrors — and the thing did 
seem ridiculous when he was sitting there, warm 
and comfortable and safe. 

Yet it could not be dismissed from his mind — 
he had to speak, even if to a listener probably 
unsympathetic. 

“ It is like a vision,” he said. “ I have had it 
three times — it is a prevision of the journey to 
St. Cloud.” 

R 6 n£, attentive, waited. 

“ It is so very exact,” continued Claude, “ and 
each time the same.” 

“ Tell me.” 

” Oh, it is only that — the ride to the gate, the 
leaving of the lame horse, the walk through the 
Park, and then ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ The appearance of a man walking beside me.” 

“ You know him ?” 

“ I hardly saw the face.” 

“ Well ?” Ren£ continued to urge Claude’s 
manifest reluctance. 

“ We went, finally, to the house of Ambrosine.” 

“ Ah yes, she lived there on the banks of the 
river ” 

“ Surely you remember ” 


1 48 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

“ We were never intimate," smiled Ren£. “ I 
do not believe that I ever went to her house. 
Of course it was familiar to you ?" 

“ I saw it again exactly — it was shut up. 
Deserted and in decay. My companion broke the 
window shutters and stepped in. I followed. 
The room was in disrepair, unfurnished — as I 
looked round the place 

He shuddered, in spite of his strong control. 

“ The fiend with me revealed himself. I knew 
that he was the murderer of Ambrosine, and he 
fell on me as he had fallen on her " 

Ren£ was silent a moment. 

“ Why should the murderer of Ambrosine wish 
to murder you ?" he asked at length. 

“ How do I know ? I tell you my dream." 

“ An extraordinary dream." 

‘ Would^you take it as a warning ?" 

“ A warning ?" 

“ Of what will happen ?" 

‘ It is obviously absurd," said R£n£ quietly. 

“ Yes, absurcK-yet I feel as if the 12th of 
December would be the day of my death." 

“ You have brooded over it — you must put it 
out of your mind." 

“ I cannot," said Claude wildly. “ I cannot !" 

“ Then — don’t go." 

“ I tell you, it is out of my power to stay away." 

R£n6 looked at him keenly. 

“ Then how can I help you ? 

Claude took this glance to mean that he doubted 
of his wits. 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 149 

“ Only by listening to my fool’s talk,” he said, 
smiling. 

11 Does that help ?” 

” I hope it may — you see, the whole thing — 
that wretched girl— has become an obsession — 
waking and sleeping.” 

“ Strange.” 

“ Strange indeed.” 

“ After you had forgotten.” 

“ Yes, I had forgotten,” said Claude. 

“ So had I, to tell the truth.” 

“ Why should one remember ? It was a curious 
affair.” 

“ Her death ?” 

“ Her murder, yes.” 

“ I do not see that it was so curious. A little 
wanton, living alone with some spoils foolishly 
displayed— she courted her fate.” 

“ But she had so little — a few bits of imitation 
jewellery — a few coins — and who should have 
known of them?” 

R£n£ shrugged, and put down his empty coffee- 
cup. 

” And they said she was liked by the few poor 
folk about ” 

“ There are always ruffians on the tramp on 
the watch for these chances.” 

11 Yes — yet it was strange ” 

Ren£ interrupted with an expression of distaste. 

“ Why go back to this ?” 

Claude stared, as if amazed at himself. 

“ Why, indeed ?” 


iso SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

“ You become morbid, unreasonable, Claude; 
rouse yourself, forget this thing.” 

The other laughed; it did not have a pleasant 
sound. 

“ I suppose I am haunted.” 

“ Why should you be ? You did not do her any 
wrong.” 

“ She cared for me.” 

Ren£ laughed now. 

“ By God !” said Claude fiercely, “ she cared for 
me — I believe she still cares — that is why she 
will not let me go ” 

Rene rose and took a step or two away from 
him. 

“ What are you talking of?” he asked. 

“ I say, she cares — that is why she is trying to 
warn me.” 

“ You think it is she ?” 

“ Ambrosine — yes.” 

“You must not allow yourself these fancies, 
my poor fellow.” 

“You may well pity me. I never cared for 
her — I think I hated her, when she was dead. 
I hate her now — why won’t she keep quiet in 
her grave and leave me alone ?” 

He rose and walked across the room with a 
lurching step. 

R6n6, leaning against the table, watched him. 

“ What was the house like — in your dreams ?” 

“ I told you.” 

“ Decayed — deserted ?” 

“ And tainted.” 

“ How — tainted ?” 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 151 

“ It had a taint of death — like a smell of stale 
blood. ” 

It is not likely,” said Rene, “ that the place 
is empty. Now, if it was inhabited, would not 
that shake your faith in your vision ?” 

Claude stopped short in his walk; he had not 
thought of that. 

“ Now,” smiled Rene, “ send someone to look 
at the place.” 

” Who could live there — after that ?” 

“ Bah ! do you think people stop for that 
nowadays ? If they did, half the city would be 
uninhabited. The place is cheap, I presume, 
and someone’s property. I do not suppose it has 
been allowed to fall into disrepair. That was your 
fancy.” 

“ I might send someone to see,” reflected Claude. 

11 That is what I suggest — find out before the 
1 2th, and if the house is inhabited, as I am sure 
it is, all this moonshine will clear away from your 
brain and you will undertake your journey with 
a good heart.” 

“ I will do that,” answered Claude gratefully. 
“ I knew that you would help me — forgive me for 
having wearied you, Rene.” 

His friend smiled. 

“ I want you to be reasonable — nothing is going 
to happen — after all, these papers to the Bearnais 
are not of such importance, no one would murder 
you to get them." 

“ Oh, it had nothing to do with the Bearnais, 
but with Ambrosine.” 

“ You must forget Ambrosine,” said Rene 


152 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


decidedly. “ She has ceased to exist, and there 
are no such things as ghosts.' ’ 

Claude smiled; he was thinking that once R£ne 
had beep. quite sentimental over Ambrosine ; 
certainly he was cured of that fancy. 

Why could not he too completely put the little 
dancer from his mind ? 

He also had long ceased to care. 

But he was ashamed to refer further to his fears 
and imaginings. 

“You have done me good," he declared. “ I 
shall think no more of the matter. After all, the 
1 2th will soon come and go, and then the thing 
will cease to have any meaning." 

Rene smiled, seemingly relieved by his returned 
cheerfulness. 

“ Still, send someone to look at the house," he 
said; “ that will send you on your journey with 
a lighter heart." 

“ At once — to-morrow." 

They parted, and Claude went home through the 
cold streets. 

As soon as he had left the lighted room and the 
company of his friend, the old dreary terror 
returned. 

He hastened to his chamber, hoping to gain 
relief amid his own surroundings, and lit every 
candle he could find. 

He would not go to bed as he dreaded the return 
of the dream, yet he was sleepy and had nothing 
to do. 

Presently he went to a bottom drawer in the 
modest bureau that served him as wardrobe, and 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 153 

took out a small parcel wrapped in silver paper. 
He unfolded it and brought forth a chicken-skin 
fan, wreathed with figures of flying loves in rose 
and silver tones that surrounded a delicate pastoral 
river scene, the banks trailing with eglantine, the 
azure sky veiled in soft clouds and a blue satin- 
lined boat fastened by a gold cord to an alabaster 
pillar in readiness for amorous passengers. 

The fan was not new; there were the marks 
of some spots that had been cleaned away, spots 
of blood, perhaps, and the fine ivory sticks were 
stained in places. 

Claude had bought it at a bric-&-brac shop 
filled with the plunder of chateau and hotel; it 
had been cheap and valuable, and at the time he 
had not cared that it had probably been stolen 
from some scene of murder and violence, and that 
the one-time owner had almost certainly bowed 
her neck to a bitter fate — no, it had rather 
amused him to buy for the little dancer of the 
Faubourg St. Antoine the property of some great 
lady. 

Now it seemed a sinister and horrid omen, this 
toy with the blood spots scarcely erased. 

It had been meant as a peace-offering for 
Ambrosine — after their little quarrel, which was 
never to be mended this side the grave. 

fie had had it in his pocket when he had gone 
to look at her for the last time. 

Since then it had lain in the drawer forgotten, it 
had never occurred to him to give it to another 
woman — it was doubly the property of the dead. 
Now he handled it carefully, opening and shutting 


1 54 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

it in the candlelight and staring at those cupids, 
who brought no thoughts of love, and that faery 
scene that brought no thoughts of peace. 

And as he looked he seemed to see the delicate 
thing in the small hands of Ambrosine as she sat 
up in the big bed with the gaudy draperies, and 
her fair hair fell down and obscured the fan. 

Her fair hair. . . . 

How plainly he could see her fair hair as he 
had last seen it, folded into a neat pillow for her 
head. 

He put the fan away and built up a big fire, 
feeding it with pine knots ; he was possessed by the 
certainty that if he slept he would again dream of 
the journey to St. Cloud. 

It seemed as if Ambrosine was in the room, 
trying to speak to him, to tell him something; 
but he would not let her, he would not put himself 
in her power; he would not sleep. 

Among the neglected books on the little shelf 
by his bed was an old copy of Pascal. 

Claude took this down and began reading it 
with painful exactitude and attention. 

With this and strong coffee he kept himself 
awake till morning. 

Before he left for the Chamber, he paid his 
landlord’s son to go to St. Cloud and look at the 
house of Ambrosine, which he very carefully de- 
scribed, adding the excuse that he had been told 
of the place as a desirable house for the summer 
heat ; above all things the boy must notice whether 
it was inhabited or not. 

All that day he was languid and heavy-eyed, 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 155 

weary from lack of sleep, with his nerves on the 
rack. 

Through the dreary, monotonous hours he was 
picturing his messenger, treading unconsciously 
the way that had become so terrible to him, 
approaching the fatal house and finding it, as he 
had found it, three times in his dreams, deserted 
and decayed. 

Ren6 made no reference to their conversation 
of the previous night, but he was more than ever 
friendly and pleasant. 

When the intolerable day was at last over, he 
asked Claude to dine with him, but the other 
declined; his reason, which he did not give, was 
that he was desperately anxious to hear the news 
the boy had brought from St. Cloud. 

When he reached home the fellow had returned; 
a boat had given him a lift each way. 

Claude was foolishly relieved to see his calm 
and cheerfulness. 

“ Well ?" he asked, with the best indifference he 
could assume. 

11 Well, Citizen Bowcher, I should not take that 
house at St. Cloud." 

“ Why ?" The words came mechanically. 

“ First of all, there has been a bad murder 
there." 

“ How did you find that out ?" 

“ The people on the boat told me — they go past 
every day." 

So the thing was known — remembered. 

“ Never mind that, boy. What of the house ?" 

“ It is in ruins, decay " 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


156 

“ Ruins — decay ?” 

11 Well, all shuttered up ” 

“ Shuttered ?” 

“ Yes, citizen,” he began, staring at Claude, 
whose manner was certainly startling, “ and the 
garden full of weeds.” 

Claude made an effort to speak rationally. 

“ So you did not see the house inside, eh ?” 
he asked. 

“No one knew who had the key — the landlord 
lived in Paris, they said, and never came there. 
The place had a bad reputation because of the 
horrid murder done there ” 

“ In these times,” muttered Claude, “ are they 
so sensitive ?” 

“ They are just ignorant people, citizen, those 
on the boat and those I met in the forest.” 

“ And the house was impossible ?” 

“ It would need a good deal of repairing.” 

“ Ah ” 

“ And the weeds in the garden were monstrous — 
there was one great bramble across and across 
the door.” 

Claude gave him a terrible look and dismissed 
him. 

So it was all there, exactly like his dream. 

There were only three days to the 12th — only 
three days perhaps to live. 

When he reached his room he looked at the 
calendar, hoping he had made some mistake in 
the date. 

No — in three days it would be the 12th. 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 157 

He could not go to bed, but no coffee could keep 
him awake. 

As soon as he was asleep he dreamed his dream 
of the journey to St. Cloud, nor could he rouse 
himself until the horrid sequence of events was 
complete. 

He awoke shivering, unnerved, and cold with 
sweat. 

He had to take brandy before he could fit 
himself to make his toilet and go to the Chamber. 

As he hurried along the street fresh with the 
transient morning freshness of the city, the burden 
of his misery was lightened by a sudden thought. 
He would take a companion with him, he would 
take Rene. 

That would defeat the dreams. 

The warning would have saved him; no one 
would attack two of them, and they could go armed ; 
they need not go near the house, and they could 
proceed by water and not walk through the 
Park. 

Claude felt almost himself again as he thought 
out this plan. 

No sooner had he reached the Chamber than he 
found his friend and broached the scheme to him. 

R£n£ was agreeable, and readily accorded his 
company. 

“ I thought of it myself,” he said. “ I can 
easily get permission to come with you, and we 
will lay this ghost once and for ever.” 

Claude was so relieved that he almost lost his 
old foreboding. 


i 5 8 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

But the night before the journey he again 
dreamed that he was being murdered by the 
murderer of Ambrosine, who wore a green coat 
with dark blue frogs. 

At the appointed hour They set out, Ren6 
endeavouring to cheer Claude, who was gloomy 
and taciturn, but as the journey proceeded, his 
spirits rose; the charm had been proved wrong 
in the first instance, he was not going on horseback 
to St. Cloud. 

But when they reached the gates of the Park, 
he was disappointed to find the boat stopped 
at the little quay and began unloading. 

R£ne had arranged with the captain, and Rene, 
it seemed, had misunderstood. 

The boat went no further. 

But it was only a short walk across the Park 
to St. Cloud and the Deputy’s house — the captain 
could not understand Claude’s discomfiture. 

Well, they must walk — here again the dream was 
wrong. 

He had a companion. 

Ren£ laughed at him; the walk would do them 
good this cold evening, and they would be at their 
destination long before dusk — as for the return, 
if they were not offered hospitality, well, there 
were good inns in St. Cloud. 

They entered the magnificent iron gates, now 
always open, and started briskly across the grass. 

Here it was, exactly as he had seen it in his 
dreams, the huge bare trees, the dead leaves 
underfoot, the pallid gleam of the river to the 
right, the expanse of forest to the left, through 


* the FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 159 

which now and then a fountain or a statue 
showed. 

It was bitterly cold, the sky veiled, and presently 
a thin mist rose off the river, dimming everything 
with fog. 

Like the dim light of his dream. 

“ We shall lose our way,” he said. 

“ No — I know this way well.” 

“ You know it ?” 

“ When I was a boy I used to live at St. Cloud,” 
said Ren£. 

They proceeded more slowly, muffled to the 
throats in their greatcoats, which they had worn 
all the journey, for it had been cold on the river 
also. 

Claude thought of Ambrosine till his senses 
reeled round that one image. 

Here she had walked, he with her, often enough — 
near was her house, near her grave. 

He seemed to see her in every dimness between 
the trees — Ambrosine — with her fair hair mingling 
with the mist. 

Suddenly before him a huge fountain arose with 
a dried basin and a featureless statue behind. 

And Rene stopped to latch up his shoe. 

He was not thinking of his dream now, but he 
had the sensation that this had all happened before. 
As he looked at Rene, he muttered to himself, 
half stupidly: 

“ What an extraordinary coincidence !” 

Then Ren 6 straightened himself and slipped 
his hand through his friend’s arm. 

His mantle had fallen back a little, and Claude 


1 60 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

saw that he wore a new suit, dark green, frogged 
with dark blue, and again he muttered : 

“ What an extraordinary coincidence I” 

“ I know the way,” said R6n6, and led him, as 
if he had been a blind man, through the shifting 
mist. 

In a few moments they stood on the outskirts 
of the Park and before the decayed and deserted 
house of Ambrosine. 

As he had seen it, with the weeds in the garden 
and the bramble across the door. 

They entered the little patch of ground. 

“ Now we are here,” said Ren£, “ we may as 
well look inside.” 

So saying he wrenched off one of the rotting 
shutters and climbed into the room. 

Claude followed him, like a creature deprived 
of wits. 

They stood together in the damp, dull, bare 
room — as they had stood together in the dream. 

Claude looked at Rene’s face, which had quite 
changed. 

“So you murdered her?” he said in a sick 
voice. 

“ You never guessed ?” asked R£n£. “ I loved 

her, you see, and she loved me till you came. 
And then I hated both of you. I was mad from 
then, I think, as mad as you with your infernal 
dreams.” 

“You murdered Ambrosine !” whimpered 
Claude. 

“ And your dream showed me the way to murder 
you. I have been waiting so long to find how 
to do it.” 


THE FAIR HAIR OF AMBROSINE 161 


Claude began laughing. 

“ Her fair hair — if one could open her grave 
one might see it again — like a pillow for her 

head ” He looked at Rene, whose pale and 

distorted face seemed to grow larger, until it bore 
down on him like an evil thing blotting out hope. 

Claude did not put a hand to any of the weapons 
he had brought; he fell on his knees and held up 
his hands in the attitude of prayer, while he began 
to gabble senseless words. 

And Rene fell on him with the knife that had 
killed Ambrosine. 


ii 


VII.— THE HALF BROTHERS 


No. 798 . — A silver scimitar inlaid with turkis stones. 

Spanish , early seventeenth century. 

Don Pablo de Tassio rose from his afternoon 
sleep, and, moving to the window on unslippered 
feet, peered through the green lattice into the blaz- 
ing courtyard, where some scarlet flowers clung to 
the rough white wall. 

A great stillness hung over the burning afternoon ; 
the deep blue sky was alive with sparkles of gold ; 
the broad leaves of the fig, the gold and crimson 
fruit of the pomegranate, the vivid orange hanging 
among the dark leaves showed in the garden beyond 
the white courtyard. 

And beyond that were the square white houses 
and slanting roofs of the Valencian town, the con- 
fused walls and turrets, towers and terraces shaded 
here and there with the foliage of the palm, the 
acacia, and the fig. 

Here and there, too, where the houses opened 
on to a garden or a street, was a glimpse of the dazz- 
ling blue of the Mediterranean Sea. 

There was no one in sight ; the green or blue lat- 
tice was shut over every window, the rush blind 
drawn out over every balcony. 

162 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


163 

In the courtyard of Don Pablo’s house the sun 
shone unshaded, dry white dust filled every corner; 
in the centre was a well raised on three steps and 
protected by a delicate ironwork from which hung 
two copper pots, flashing back the sun from their 
polished surface. 

On the steps of the well stood pots painted green 
and filled with gardenias, crimson lilies, and jasmine. 

Brilliant lizards lay in the crevices of the stone, 
their palpitating sides their only sign of life. 

Don Pablo looked with changed eyes at this 
prospect, which had been familiar to him all his life. 
He had always loved the town, the house, the heat, 
these gorgeous afternoons of September — but now 
all affected him with a sense of horror. 

He pulled the blind slats level so as to have a 
better view, and leant his sick head against the 
arched mullion. 

Nothing was changed — to the outward eye all 
looked as he had ever known it — yet all was differ- 
ent, all touched by the terror of his inner knowledge 
of the fate of the town and of her inhabitants. 

The place was under a curse — it would soon be 
depopulated — what bloomed now as a garden would 
be empty soon as a desert; these peaceful homes 
would be abandoned, their owners in exile, the fruit 
of generations of laborious toil would come to no- 
thing, for they who had worked would be driven 
into exile, leaving behind their possessions. 

For at length, after years of alternate hope and 
fear, after strife, intrigue, and bitterness on each 
side, the fatal fiat had gone forth. 

All the Morisco Christians in Valencia, under 


1 64 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

pretence of their secret infidel leanings, and the 
assistance they were alleged to give to the Muslim 
corsairs who harassed the coast from Catalonia to 
Andalusia, were to be banished to Barbary, taking 
with them only such property as each could carry. 

Though they had long been persecuted by the 
hate of the pure Valencian Christians, and the Duke 
of Lerma, the King’s Minister and favourite, was 
especially their enemy, yet the final blow had fallen 
as a thunderclap from a blue heaven. 

Even now, Don Pablo, looking over the town on 
which such an awful fate had fallen, could hardly 
believe the thing. 

Over thirty thousand families in Valencia came 
under the ban of banishment, and all were pros- 
perous, law-abiding, good tax-payers, thrifty, self- 
respecting citizens of the Christian faith, whose only 
fault was their mixture of Moorish blood and their 
supposed Moorish sympathies. 

It was amazing to Don Pablo — as he considered 
it, almost incredible. 

For it was a well-known thing that the Moriscos 
of Valencia, hampered as they were by unjust taxa- 
tion and fiscal edicts, their industries discouraged 
and themselves oppressed by racial hatred, religious 
bigotry and ignorant statesmanship, had neverthe- 
less contrived to make their province the most 
flourishing in the whole of Spain ; their horticulture 
and agriculture were unrivalled, and their manu- 
factories and arts were one of the chief glories and 
riches of the kingdom. 

But jealousy, fanaticism, and malice had tri- 
umphed; everyone with a taint of Morisco blood 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


165 

was to be expelled from his home, with the exception 
of a few of the most skilled and “ most Christian/’ 
who were to be left to teach their arts and crafts to 
the Spaniards who would step into their place. 

To distinguish the Morisco from the pure Chris- 
tian had proved a task of some difficulty, as there 
was scarcely a family in the whole province that 
could not trace its descent from the Spanish Moors ; 
but the Government officials, frequently inspired 
by private cupidity, spite, or jealousy, had solved 
the problem by a wholesale clearance of those who 
could be even suspected of the Moorish taint — a 
taint which was in many cases hard to discover, so 
closely had Spaniard and Moor become amalga- 
mated. 

Don Pablo de Tassio stood outside this disaster; 
his father was a Castilian who had come to Valencia 
in his youth and there founded a factory for the 
making of damascened and gold-worked steel for 
which the district was famous. 

Don Pablo had inherited his fortune and his in- 
dustry, had always kept well on the side of the 
priests and the Government, and, even at the 
present moment, enjoyed such a degree of favour 
that he was permitted to retain the Morisco skilled 
workers whom he employed and on whose art and 
industry his livelihood depended. 

Yet — and it was this that clouded his face and 
darkened his brow — his mother had been a Morisco, 
and her son, his half-brother, was one of those under 
sentence of banishment. 

In their youth they had been intimate, had even 
loved each other; the elder De Tassio had been no 


166 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

bigot ; he had allowed his wife to bring the son of 
her first marriage to be brought up with his own 
child. 

But on his death the two young men had fallen 
into disagreement. 

Juan, the elder, had inherited the silk-weaving 
business of his father, who had been a wealthy 
manufacturer of pure Moorish descent, and he had 
devoted himself to this, retiring from the house and 
company of Pablo. 

Gradually, as political and religious feeling ran 
high in the province, the two fell into estrangement, 
each embracing the race of his own father; their 
businesses were worked in rivalry, each endeavour- 
ing to become more prosperous than the other, and 
the breach was made final and unbridgeable when 
both selected the same lady for their courtship. 

Dona Estreldis del Ayamonte was one of the beau- 
ties of Villajoyosa, and had taken full advantage 
of her position in coquettishly hesitating between 
the two rich and handsome young men who wooed 
her so ardently. 

But at length her choice had fallen on Juan, and 
she had overcome the reluctance of her parents, who 
were not pleased to promise her to a Morisco, 
however wealthy. 

The marriage was to have taken place in October, 
and now, in September, the Edict had been pub- 
lished, and Juan must go to the coast of Barbary for 
lifelong exile — leaving behind his cherished factory 
— all his possessions, including Dona Estreldis. 

Don Pablo had sincerely hated his brother since 
he had defeated him in the lists of love, and rejoiced 


THE HALF BROTHERS 167 

with a silent satisfaction at the utter ruin that had 
overtaken his rival. 

No more would he be annoyed by hearing of his 
half-brother’s prosperity — of his industry and skill, 
of the success of the rich silks and embroideries 
woven from his own designs, of the increase in his 
workers and his output. 

Now the factory would be closed, the looms silent, 
# and master and men gone from Villajoyosa for ever. 
No more would Pablo be vexed by the sight of his 
brother’s haughty figure swaggering along the 
streets and in the Plaza, kneeling defiantly in the 
church, or walking with Dona Estreldis and her 
parents in the evening along the palm groves that 
bordered the sea. 

He had heard that Juan would leave to-morrow; 
the Spanish galleys were in waiting in efery Valen- 
cian port, and the expulsion of the Moriscos had 
begun immediately on the proclamation of the 
Edict. He wondered what his brother was doing; 
he wondered what he would be doing on the eve of 
such a disaster. He tried to imagine what it would 
feel like to be suddenly bereft of his cherished pros- 
perity, his position, his ease and comfort — to. find 
himself treated as a prisoner — a criminal, to be sub- 
ject to insult and scorn, perhaps blows and more 
humiliation. • 

Don Pablo shuddered. 

Moving from the window, he returned to the 
couch where he had taken his midday rest. 

Beside it was a small table of ebony inlaid with 
a pattern in ivory. On thi^were glasses and jugs 
and a white porcelain jar. 

. 


68 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Don Pablo mixed himself a glass of sherbet 
flavoured with citron and drank it slowly. The 
heat was intense, he could not move without 
fatigue. 

He leant back on the couch again, staring at the 
straight bars of sunlight which fell through the open 
slats of the blind on to the smooth red- tiled floor. 

Flies buzzed round the white walls and ceilings 
and on the hangings of gold and crimson leather; 
it was the only sound. 

Don Pablo looked with approving eyes round the 
handsome chamber. 

The polished black furniture, the Eastern rugs, 
the sideboard with the majolica dishes, the writing- 
desk of “ pietraduza,” all bespoke wealth. 

He dwelt on his good fortune and his luck ; every- 
thing he had wanted he had achieved. 

Except Dona Estreldis. 

And for that loss he could console himself — there 
were plenty of other desirable women in Villajoyosa 
besides the disdainful daughter of the old Aya- 
monte. 

He glanced at himself in a little mirror cunningly 
framed in mother o’ pearl that hung above the table 
by his couch. 

A lean, dark comely young man answered his 
gaze; there was much of the Morisco in his black 
eyes with the long lashes, in his arched nose and 
full mouth, in the graceful contours of his head and 
face, the thick curl of his close hair and his sallow 
complexion. 

As he looked at himself now he seemed to be 
staring at Juan. 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


169 

Yet the Castilian blood in him had always angrily 
rejected the Morisco strain, and he had never ad- 
mitted the likeness between himself and his half- 
brother — but now 

Certainly he was like Juan. 

He passed his hand angrily across his face and 
turned from the mirror. 

Unbidden and unwanted memories of his child- 
hood came to his mind. 

In this room he and Juan had played together; 
here in the quiet heat of the day their mother had 
told them stories. 

Of all her tales they had loved most of all that 
of the battle of Lepanto. 

Their young fancies had been stirred by her pic- 
ture of the Turkish commander, wreathed in pearls, 
standing on the deck of his gilt galley and of that 
of his enemy, Don John of Austria, with a feathered 
arrow sticking in every joint of his armour, urging 
on the Christian hosts to victory. 

And afterwards they would play at Turk and 
Spaniard, turning the chairs into galleys and using 
lemons and figs as weapons to hurl at each other in 
the fight. 

He wondered if Juan ever thought of these days 
now the mimic rivalry had developed into so deadly 
an earnest, and Christianity had proved once more 
its intolerance and its jealousy, and Spain once 
more her fierce bigotry and insane policy. 

Becoming tired of these thoughts, he rose and 
went downstairs. 

The household was beginning to stir after the 
great heat of the day. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


1 70 

Don Pablo went into the courtyard ; the bottom 
of the house formed an open arcade where grew a 
great vine. 

The master of the house stood there, under the 
yellow fruit and leaves, and watched the servants 
bringing out the long trestles covered with split figs 
and place them to dry in the sun. 

Others brought deep wooden troughs filled with 
crushed tomatoes, and bunches of grapes, small and 
black, tied to a light trellis, and halved pears and 
rings of apples, all to dry for winter use. 

The pots of flowers round the well were moved 
into the shade and there watered ; sounds of move- 
ment and of work came from the house. 

The sun was less powerful and one could breathe 
freely. 

Don Pablo called to him an old man spreading 
out the figs — a Castilian this, who had been with 
his father. 

Standing under the portico, shaded by the vine, 
he spoke to his servant. 

“ Any news from the town, Marcos ?” 

The old man had removed his wide straw hat and 
stepped into the shade. 

“ The Mariscos make ready to depart, Senor,” he 
answered. 

“ All?” 

“ All.” 

“ It seems strange, Marcos.” 

“ It is just, Senor.” 

“ You think so ?” asked the young man, almost 
eagerly. 

The old peasant looked at him with eyes in which 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


171 

shone the fierce spiritual pride which had made 
Spain terrible and splendid. 

“ How could we prosper with the infidel in our 
midst ?” 

“ But they are Christians/’ said Don Pablo, 
speaking like one who wished his words to be dis- 
puted and refuted. 

“ So they say,” replied the old Castilian sourly 
“New Christians !” 

“ They will take the wealth of the country with 
them, Marcos.” 

“ No, Senor,” cried the peasant eagerly, “ they 
are forbidden to take any money with them.” 

“ Wealth is not money, Marcos,” replied his 
master sadly. 

“ Not money ?” 

“ Nay, it is industry and skill. It is what has 
made Valencia bloom like the rose — Spain loses 
half her revenue with the Edict.” 

“ What matter for that,” returned Marcos, “ if 
we perform the service of God in casting out these 
heathen ?” 

Pablo knew that Lerma and Philip would have 
said the same. 

The old servant continued to gaze at him 
earnestly, almost suspiciously. 

“ You are glad to see Villajoyosa purged, Senor ?” 
he asked. 

He was thinking of the Morisco mother and her 
eldest son. 

Don Pablo read the thought, and the blood 
flushed up from his white collar to his black 
hair. 


172 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

“ Do you not suppose that I am glad ?” he asked 
haughtily. 

“ Certainly, Senor.” 

“ The Edict will touch no one for whom I care,” 
added the master ; “ we are safe, Marcos, and we may 
keep as many Moriscos as we will to work for us.” 

“ I am pleased at that, Senor, for certainly these 
devils work well.” 

On their work his fortune had been built; no 
Spaniard could have done the delicate and exquisite 
steel and gold work which commanded such a high 
price in the markets of Europe, and the proceeds 
from which had made a rich man of Don Pablo de 
Tassio. 

“ You have not been into the town to-day, Senor 
Pablo ?” 

“No ” — the young man glanced away — “ I shall 
go presently.” 

“You will see some fine sights, Senor — all the 
Moriscos running about like ants whose heaps have 
been overturned.” 

And the old man sucked his thin lips vindictively. 

His master looked at him curiously. 

“ Marcos, why do you hate the Moriscos ?” he 
asked. 

Again that look of suspicion crossed the shrewd 
peasant face. 

“ Because they are bad Christians,” he answered 
keenly. 

“ For no other reason ?” 

“ What other reason should I have, Senor ? And 
is that not enough ?” 

“ The priests would say so.” 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


i73 

“ And one must believe the priests, Senor. The 
Pope himself said they were to go.” 

“ Well, they will go, Marcos — about one hundred 
and fifty thousand from this province alone.” 

The peasant chuckled. 

“ A good haul for the devil’s net !” he cried gloat- 
ingly. 

Don Pablo did not answer; he turned back into 
the house and entered the darkened room behind 
the arcade. 

This was his private closet and counting-house; 
the walls were filled with shelves of ledgers, account 
and order books, and several desks and tables 
for specimens of the beautiful handicraft of the 
Moriscos. 

Swords, blades and scabbards, daggers, gorgets, 
gauntlets and small steel caps all wonderfully 
damascened and inlaid, as well as smaller articles, 
such as hunting-knives, ink-dishes, candlesticks, 
stirrups, mirror frames, and various-shaped 
boxes. 

It was the usual hour for Don Pablo to go through 
his accounts. 

The clerk had left the books ready on the desk, 
the quill was mended, the great chair with the 
purple velvet cushions in place. 

But to-day the young merchant did not even look 
at these things. 

Instead he went to the bottom drawer of a black 
bureau that stood beneath the low window and 
lifted out a Moorish sword in a scabbard covered 
with crimson satin. 

His mother had given him this. 


174 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


When a young boy he had seen it in her possession 
and passionately envied the grace and splendour of 
the thing. 

And she had told him that it had belonged to her 
father and to his before him, and that they had been 
grandees in Granada in the old days when the Moors 
had been kings in Spain. 

Afterwards, a few months before her death, she 
had given him the weapon and bidden him cherish 
it fondly. 

He did not think that he had ever looked at it 
since. 

Now he handled it curiously. 

It was a short scimitar of engraved steel with a 
hilt of beaten gold, very finely worked and set with 
rubies and square lumps of turkis put so close to- 
gether that the curved hornlike handle glimmered 
blue as a forget-me-not. 

The scabbard was edged and tipped with gold, 
also set with blue and red stones, and though all was 
a little tarnished by long disuse it still shone a thing 
of splendour. 

Don Pablo softly handled the heathen weapon 
which he had so long put by and forgotten; he 
wondered why it had come into his mind to-day. 

His thoughts travelled to the ancestor who had 
worn the scimitar when the Moors had ruled in 
Spain. 

Ruled — and now they were despised, hounded — 
finally exiled from their homes. 

What a change was here ! 

He put the little sword back in the deep dark 
drawer, closed it, and taking his hat from the chair 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


175 

near the desk, went out aimlessly into the white 
sunny streets. 

Adjoining his house were his works; from one of 
the low doors of them there came an old Morisco 
who had been long in his employment. The hours 
of labour were not yet over, and the man was dressed 
for departure. 

Don Pablo stopped him. 

“You are leaving work ?” 

“ Your employment, Senor.” 

The master flushed. 

“ But you are exempt from the Edict — all my 
people are exempt.” 

“ But my people are not, Don Pablo ” — the old 
man looked at him with dull eyes — “ they are 
exiled, and I am going with them.” 

“You are going with them ?” 

The Morisco did not answer; he stood patiently, 
looking down the sunny street. 

The master moved away from him, half shame- 
facedly. 

“You have been paid ?” 

“ Yes, Senor.” 

Don Pablo wanted to say something like thanks, 
even gratitude, wishes of good luck, expressions of 
good-will, yet was silent. 

The old workman turned away without a back- 
ward look at the building where he had toiled at 
his beautiful handicraft for the best years of his 
life, and went slowly up the street, his stooping 
figure casting a bent shadow on the houses as he 
passed. 

Don Pablo watched him go. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


1 76 

“ That is what Dona Estreldis will do,” he said 
to himself; “ she will do that ” 

He knew now that this thought had always been 
in the back of his head, and that the words of the 
old Morisco had merely shaped what he had always 
known. 

Estreldis would follow Juan as the workman 
followed his people. 

The young man was sure of it; she was romantic, 
high-spirited, very much in love; she would leave 
everything, mount the galley with Juan and with 
him sail to Barbary and there find a new life — 
perhaps even a new happiness. So, after all, Juan 
would triumph. 

For surely it was a finer thing to go into exile with 
a woman like Estreldis for a companion than to 
remain at home in smug prosperity and ease. 

“ If I had been exiled no one would have gone 
with me,” he thought. 

The alluring image of the woman rose before his 
mind. 

He thought he would see her once more; he 
thought that it would please him to offer her some 
protection and assistance in her heroic act. 

Perhaps they would be married before they went ; 
for her sake he would fetch and fee the priest — he 
was prepared to rise to nobility for the sake of 
Estreldis. 

It would be strange to see Juan again — yet not 
altogether displeasing. 

He turned in the direction of the house of Dona 
Estreldis. 

Many a shop he passed was closed, many a house 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


1 77 

shuttered; from many a garden came sounds of 
hurry, confusion, wailing and cries. 

Don Pablo tried not to notice these things; he 
wished Villajoyosa would be as it had been a week 
ago — as it had been ever since he had known the 
town. 

These sights and sounds of distress stirred some- 
thing fierce in his blood. 

He hastened his steps. 

As he reached the low white portico of the Aya- 
montes he stood at a loss, wondering if she would 
see him — or any — at this moment. 

Her duenna came to the lattice to peer at the 
new-comer, and seeing Don Pablo, hastened to admit 
him to the outside staircase that led from the court- 
yard to the apartments of her young mistress. 

Don Pablo came silently into her presence, using 
the reverence one would use before a great grief. 

The room had dull red walls and black furniture, 
and still had the straw blinds drawn out over the 
flower-filled balcony, so that it was cool and full of 
shade. 

Dona Estreldis sat on a dark scarlet couch; be- 
hind her the duenna had her place at a spinning- 
wheel, and was carding white yarn from a large rush 
basket. 

Pablo kissed the young woman’s finger-tips and 
stood looking at her. 

She was dressed as if ready to go forth. 

Her full skirts of a shining pearl-coloured taffeta, 
edged with bands of black velvet, just lifted to show 
her scarlet shoes; her black bodice, laced with 
strings of coral beads, was fastened loosely over 

12 


1 78 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

an undergarment of lace mingled with silver threads ; 
over she wore an emerald green silk jacket bordered 
with red roses, and over that was a white shawl, 
fringed and fine as gossamer. 

A string of gold filigree beads enclosed her round 
smooth throat, her dusky brown hair was curled 
up into a high tortoise-shell comb set with corals, 
and in her ears hung long pearls. 

Between her full lips she held a gardenia, and she 
stared at her completed toilette in a little gold hand 
mirror which she held slackly on her lap. 

She did not smile at Don Pablo; her large lus- 
trous eyes rested on him mournfully. 

Nor did he know what to say; she had always 
been very desirable and beautiful in his eyes ; now 
she had the air of something apart and holy, for he 
viewed her through the glory of the heroic sacrifice 
he believed she was going to make for his brother’s 
sake. 

He envied Juan. 

She took the flower from her lips and fastened 
it behind her delicate little ear. 

“ It is a long time since you have been here,” she 
said. 

He had no answer. 

“ Why do you come now?” she asked gently; 
she leant back on the dark rich cushion ; her exotic, 
frail, and transient beauty glowed at him with the 
splendour of a perfect thing. 

It was strange to think of her among the exiles 
in Barbary. 

“ I thought you might need me,” he said earnestly 
and humbly. 


THE HALF BROTHERS 


179 

Her moist lips parted in a faint smile as she re- 
plied. 

“ That was a most gentle thought, Don Pablo/' 
she said. 

“ Can I help you ?" 

Her heavy lashes drooped. 

“ Help me?" 

11 In any way." 

He thought that she was shy of asking his assist- 
ance for his brother ; he wished to clearly show her 
his generosity. 

Dona Estreldis appeared to be considering. 

“ I was very unkind to you," she murmured 
softly. 

With raised hand he made a gesture of protest. 

“ And now I am punished," concluded the lady. 

“ I am here to help you." 

She considered him with a full look frofn her 
languorous eyes. 

“ Have you seen Juan ?" 

She spoke the name with less emotion than he 
had expected; he admired her courage. 

“ No." 

“ Oh " — she pursed her lips. 

Don Pablo explained himself. 

“ As there had not been good feeling between us 
I thought he would not take my visit kindly or 
pleasantly." 

“ I expect you are right." 

“ But if you wish, Dona Estreldis, I will go to 
him." 

“ Oh no " 

“ And take any message." 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Ho 

“ I have no message, Don Pablo.” 

“ Everything is arranged?” 

She flushed. 

” What should there be to arrange ?” 

He looked at her with surprise. 

“ Will you not see him ?” 

“ No,” she answered. “ I wrote to him.” 

“ But you — you ” — he fumbled for his words — 
“ Juan leaves to-morrow,” he added at last. 

“ Ah, to-morrow. . . .” 

“ You did not know ?” 

“ No, but when I wrote I said the sooner he left 
the better — for both of us.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

She explained. 

“ While he is here I am in a foolish position, Don 
Pablo.” 

He stared at her, frowning. 

" He was my betrothed lover.” 

“ And now?” 

“ Now I am free.” 

She looked at him with meaning, her glance was 
full of encouragement. 

“ I am free,” she repeated. 

“ You are not going with him ?” asked Don Pablo 
stupidly. 

“ Senor 1 Do you know what you say ? Go 
with him — accompany an exile to the coasts of 
Barbary — if I was so foolish it would not be per- 
mitted me 1” 

He saw now indeed the folly of his supposition. 

“ No, I did not know what I was saying,” he 
answered. 


THE HALF BROTHERS 181 

“ And he is ruined/’ continued Dona Estreldis, 
“ quite ruined.” 

“ I know — quite ruined.” 

The lady spoke again, in her sweet and plaintive 
tones which echoed strangely in the brain of her 
listener. 

“It has been terrible for me — but it was my own 
unreasonableness. My father was always against 
the match. A girl’s caprice, Senor.” 

She gave him a long look. 

“ I have suffered, Madonna !” she added with a 
sigh. 

“ I am sorry for you, Dona Estreldis.” 

He rose. 

She also got up, shaking her silks. 

“ I take your coming graciously. Will you wait 
and see my father, who is now abroad ?” 

He made heavy excuses; he was not looking into 
her tempting face, but down at the floor. 

She put out her little perfumed hand at their 
parting. 

He saw that he could have her now, for the asking. 

His brother was dead to her — no longer in her 
world or in her scheme of life. 

She was ready to take another cavalier to fill his 
place. 

Thus was Estreldis ! 

He left her; he heard her rustle out into the bal- 
cony, and as he crossed the courtyard the white 
gardenia from her hair fell at his feet. 

Don Pablo looked up. 

She disappeared with a laugh, her finger to her 
lips. 


82 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He went his way, leaving the white flower to 
wither in the sun. 

Thus was Estreldis ! 

Well, he had the better cause to rejoice — his 
enemy was stripped indeed, and he had no need to 
exercise generosity, no need to aid or envy Juan. 

His was the entire triumph now; he might, if he 
would, win the disputed woman now — or, if he 
would, disdain her. 

And Juan would go alone. 

No word or look from his beloved would soften 
his departure ; he would go knowing her indifferent 
to his fate. 

So crudely Don Pablo put his thought, so crude- 
ly it remained with him, the thought and the sting 
thereof — he wondered why there should be any 
sting in the consideration of the lightness of this 
woman. 

Was not the man his rival and his enemy ? 

Had he not, until an hour ago, desired Estreldis, 
and now she could be his ? 

She was still beautiful — he could remember every 
detail of her beauty as he remembered the shape and 
colour of the stones in the scimitar he had handled 
that morning. 

Why then was she valueless ? 

He could not answer this — it was beyond him to 
interpret the moods of his own soul. 

Without purpose or aim he returned to his house. 
Everything was as usual, but it did not seem so to 
Don Pablo. 

That night there was a thunderstorm over Villa- 


THE HALF BROTHERS 183 

joyosa; Pablo lay awake all night listening to the 
sound of it. 

He arose before his household was astir, and put- 
ting on his plainest cloak went down to the counting- 
house and took the turkis stone scimitar from the 
drawer. 

Then he set out, as the old Morisco had gone, with- 
out a backward look at his home and his prosperity. 

He made his way to the quays where the wretched 
exiles were being driven on board the galleys by the 
insolent Spanish officials. 

After the rain of last night the sun shone with a 
liquid brightness, the roofs of Villajoyosa gleamed 
between the fig and palm, the blue and violet sea 
was rough with waves capped by pearl-coloured 
foam. 

Along the dusty white road from the town came 
Juan. 

Pablo de Tassio went to meet him. 

The elder brother drew his mantle closer about 
his face and hurried on. 

Don Pablo walked beside him, hurrying to keep 
pace. 

“ I am going too — I also have Morisco blood — see, 
do you remember this ?” 

He held out the flashing scimitar from the shade 
of his cloak. 

“ It belonged to our mother's people — I am 
coming with you.” 

Juan paused in his walk. 

11 Why?” 

” I do not know — I had to.” 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


184 

Juan looked at him keenly out of the keen dark 
eyes so like his own. 

“ We used to love each other/’ he said. 

“ I remember that.” 

“ I was very lonely,” added Juan. 

“ And I — when I heard that you were going.” 

11 It is strange,” said Juan. 

The half brothers stepped together on to the 
galley that was to take them into perpetual exile. 

That night, as they lay together on the hard bench 
and in the foul darkness, Pablo, lying awake with 
many thoughts, felt his brother gently kiss his brow. 

And somehow he was repaid for all he had left 
behind — and for Estreldis. 


VIII. — “ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 

No. 637 . — A Wooden Porridge Bowl , edged with 
silver. Scotch , late seventeenth century. 

James Hepburn returned to Scotland with the 
sad feelings of an exile who comes back to find 
everything strange. 

It was not long, as years went, since he had 
fled from his country after the Argyll rising, yet 
it was long enough to have changed him. 

He was largely ruined in fortune, and there 
seemed little chance that the changed order 
which had restored him to his country would also 
restore his estates. 

He possessed a pittance, stored in Holland 
before the evil days came, but it was not sufficient 
to allow of large leisure or ample freedom of action. 
He had petitioned the new Government for re- 
instatement in his land — he knew that he could 
not soon expect this redress from the present 
chaos of affairs. 

Meanwhile he was in Edinburgh, idle, strangely 
dull at heart. 

The cause for which he had sacrificed everything 
had been largely achieved, yet this achievement 
had not brought him the peace of satisfaction. 

185 


i 86 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

The present Prince was, no doubt, a wise choice, 
but this was not James Hepburn’s man — he had 
surrendered to death on Tower Hill, and in the 
present clash of events his name had become 
obscure and his career of little meaning. 

The Protestant religion was secure, and the old 
tyranny for ever overthrown ; yet this consumma- 
tion did not seem like the triumph imagined 
in ’85. 

Somehow Mr. Hepburn had dreamed it all very 
differently. 

Perhaps his sense of disillusion, of disappoint- 
ment, was due to his own inaction, his own useless- 
ness. 

He had taken no part in the “ glorious revolu- 
tion ” which had freed England, but had floated 
in the wake of other men’s achievement and 
other men’s fortune. 

The old splendid days of plot and counterplot, 
intrigue, daring — all the fascinating expeditions 
of a desperate cause, all the romance of a gallant 
minority — were over. 

Strangely, all his friends had been lost, had 
drifted from him on the current of tempestuous 
events ; there was no one left of the old band who 
had left the Netherlands to follow Argyll in the 
days of the persecutions. 

And he had had magnificent friends. 

His heart ached with longing for those lost 
days, and for one friend in particular, whom he 
had neither seen nor heard from during the whole 
time of his exile. 

And for another, a woman this — dear Jeannie 
Duncan. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 187 


He found that he disliked Edinburgh as much 
as he had disliked the Hague and Rotterdam. 
The familiar buildings, the well-known streets, 
gave him no welcome. 

They seemed full of an alien atmosphere, full 
of a bustle and a turmoil that belonged to business 
not his; he was no longer part of great causes 
nor connected with high politics; he had served 
his turn; he was as forgotten as Monmouth and 
Argyll themselves. 

He would leave Edinburgh. 

In Craigiemuir, his native place, he would 
find someone who knew him, some shepherd or 
hind who would remember the fine days and who 
would shelter him a little in the chimney-corner 
till he had had time to arrange his derelict fortunes 
and plan his vague future. 

First he would see Jeannie Duncan, if she yet 
lived in Edinburgh, sweetest of women, kindest 
of friends, most loyal of partisans. 

Twice she had refused to be his wife in the days 
when he had been able to match her in position; 
he would not be able to ask her again now, nor 
did he think she would ever, under any circum- 
stances, have changed her mind. 

She was a woman of a firm decision; she would 
never have married save for love. 

Mr. Hepburn reflected with something of a 
start that she might very well be married. 

There was a pang in the thought. 

Sitting over his dinner in the tavern in Rosa- 
mund’s Wynd, he pictured Jeannie Duncan. 

Other faces had pleased an idle fancy, other 
smiles had eased a lonely heart, other companion- 


1 88 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

ship had lightened the empty hours of exile, but 
he had never asked, never wished, another woman 
to be his wife. 

After five years he could picture her as accurately 
as if he had seen her yesterday. 

Most frequently he visioned her as in one terrible 
scene he had beheld her. 

The scene was a barn at night; she, in a blue 
lutestring with a lace scarf over her head, was 
holding high a candle to light two duellists: him- 
self and an Englishman who had slandered their 
dear comrade, Francis Mowbray. 

The Englishman had been slain. 

Jeannie Duncan had shown neither grief nor 
remorse: “He is dead and his lie with him,” 
she had said. 

Francis had kissed her hand as she rose from 
beside the dead man. 

Francis had afterwards kissed him — he re- 
membered how clearly he could recall the touch 
of the cold cheek ! 

Francis Mowbray had reason to be grateful 
to his champion. 

Could the odious charge against him have 
been proved, Argyll himself, who loved him, 
would have been the first to have called for his 
hanging. 

For the young man, so swiftly silenced by 
Mr. Hepburn, had declared the beautiful and 
beloved Francis to be in the pay of the King’s 
men, and to have betrayed to them that Whigs 
were in hiding in Colonel Duncan’s house. 

Someone had played the traitor, for the house 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 189 


had been surrounded, and in the ensuing foray 
Jeannie's brother had been killed. 

Several other gentlemen had been captured 
and afterwards duly executed in Edinburgh. 

It was during the flight of the survivors that the 
accusation had been flung; it was in their first 
shelter, the barn on the moor, full of heather 
and dried peat, that Mr. Hepburn had silenced 
the accuser. 

He recalled it all so perfectly — the dark, the hasty 
lights, the comely body of the young Englishman, 
the gratitude of Francis Mowbray, above all, 
Jeannie Duncan in her wrath at the slander, in 
her triumphant protestation of her friend's 
innocence. 

There had been another woman there, Margaret 
Sinclair, Jeannie’s cousin, and betrothed to 
Francis. 

He had not taken much notice of her, nor could 
he now recall her very clearly, except he re- 
membered her sobbing, and always in the back- 
ground. 

Soon after they had scattered. 

The news he had received of his friends had 
been sparse. 

Colonel Duncan had gone to France with his 
daughter, and had died soon after, whereupon 
she had returned to Scotland. 

Francis Mowbray, who had relatives at the 
English Court, had been pardoned on payment 
of a fine. 

Mr. Hepburn supposed that he was married to 
Margaret — that would be an old story now. 


190 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Well, well, it was strange how clear it was 
still, all that mad, sweet time. 

It seemed such an eternity ago, yet was but five 
years. 

She would be only thirty now, and he was but 
five years older. 

Yet to him, rusty with inaction, life seemed to 
hold nothing more. 

He finished his meal and went his way, drifting 
up and down the streets like a man with no 
purpose in his soul. 

He could not bring himself to go and find 
Jeannie Duncan, he so dreaded to find her gone, 
or changed, or married. 

She might even be dead. 

He was astonished at the horror this thought 
gave him, for in truth she had been long dead 
to him. 

Now he blamed her for never having written 
to him; they should have kept in touch. 

Yet she might have written and he never have 
received the letters. 

Communication had been difficult between the 
exiles. 

He was brooding himself into folly; he would 
go and find her and ask her if she knew the where- 
abouts of Francis Mowbray, for whose sake he 
had killed a man. 

Perhaps these five years had a little dulled that 
ardent friendship — yet he would have liked to 
know good news of the charming young soldier 
who had been the darling of the short-lived enter- 
prise of '85. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 191 

By the middle of the afternoon he stood before 
what * had been Colonel Duncan’s Edinburgh 
house. t 

His old dread seized him; he feared to ring lest 
he should hear the name of a stranger as that of 
the owner of the house. 

Yet, while he hesitated, the cloud of his doubts 
was most gloriously dispelled. 

A lady passed him and mounted the steps; he 
sprang forward to see the face of Jeannie Duncan 
between the folds of the silk hood. 

The same instant she knew him and was in his 
arms in their mutual gladness. 

Laughing, clasping hands, asking questions, they 
went into the dark old house and up the dark 
old staircase. 

But when they reached the little room he knew 
so well, a certain restraint fell upon them; they 
loosened from each other’s clasp and stood apart, 
looking each on each. 

The great joy that he had had in finding her in 
her father’s house sank. 

He realised that they were strangers now, and 
that the old days were far off. 

A foolish embarrassment prevented him from 
speaking. 

He looked at her and at the room, with an inquiry 
that was almost wistful. 

Little or nothing was changed. 

In all the comfortable, heavy furnishing he 
saw but two new objects. 

Above the shining black bureau where stood 
the silver-mounted hour-glass and the parcel 


192 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

gilt candlesticks, hung a small portrait of Francis 
Mowbray. 

The beautiful face, strong and rather sadly 
smiling, looked out from between the long brown 
curls with the expression that James Hepburn 
knew so well. 

It was a fine painting, smooth and detailed 
as a miniature, and so perfect a likeness that 
it was a painful thing to Mr. Hepburn to look 
upon it. 

The other object that he noticed as new was 
a smooth, polished, round porridge-bowl with 
a silver rim that stood on a little table by the 
window. 

He did not know why he should have observed 
so small a thing, but his eye had rested there the 
moment he had entered the room. 

Then he looked back at Jeannie. 

She stood gazing at him with a half tender, 
half humorous smile. 

So little had she changed that he wondered 
that he should feel strange before her. 

A hood and cloak of dark blue and green tartan 
clasped by a glistening, clear yellow stone was 
thrown back from her full black gown, which 
flowed pleasingly round the womanly lines of her 
figure. 

The pale curls of her brown locks hung on to 
her white collar and shaded her open throat, her 
large eyes, the colour of tarn-water, her firm 
features, very delicately coloured, her mouth, 
very soft, yet firmly set at the corners — all were 
unchanged, at least to his exile’s eyes. 


41 THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 193 


It was she who spoke, throwing off the silence 
that had fallen like a cloud between them. 

44 So it is James Hepburn back again at last !” 
she smiled. 

“ At last.” 

He glanced above her head where hung a small 
diminishing mirror surrounded by a frame of 
shining black balls. 

In this he could see himself; a rather lean, 
shabby figure, with dark hair none too well 
dressed and a dark face a little haggard, a little 
weary and disillusioned in expression. 

“ Not back as I would wish to be, Jeannie,” 
he answered, voicing his inner discontent. 

She responded with her quick sympathy. 

“ Ah, you have lost much — everything ?” 

“ Nearly all — but it is not that.” 

She understood him — he remembered how quick 
she had always been at understanding. 

“ Ah, you sigh for the old days of lost causes, 
James ?” 

“ I sigh for what has not been achieved,” he 
replied. 

“ For what we have not achieved,” she said 
eagerly; “ but the thing has been done.” 

“ What has been done ?” 

“ Everything,” she spoke with energy. “ All 
is as we wished it to be — a Protestant King.” 

“ Not the King of our choosing.” 

She ignored him. 

“ Peace, freedom — all we ever wanted, James !” 

“ You are content, then ?” he asked grudgingly. 

Unaccountably she flushed. 

13 


194 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Your heart has gone out of politics/’ he 
accused her. 

The blood lingered in her fair cheeks. 

“ Perhaps,” she admitted. 

She took the great tapestry chair by the window 
and made him sit on the little needlework stool 
by her side. 

Presently he was going to ask her about herself ; 
the dim hope of one day winning her after all was 
to be disclosed at the back of his thoughts; now 
they would talk of indifferent things — just to 
prolong the pleasure of sitting together. 

“ How did you come to keep the house just 
the same while you were away ?” he asked. 

“ My father’s sister lived here.” 

“ She was not touched ?” 

“ Nor I — they left the women alone.” 

“ Why did you never write to me ?” 

He expected — hoped — that she would say she 
had written. 

Instead Jeannie shook her head. 

“ There was nothing to write of.” 

“ Jeannie ! There was all the news. And I 
wanted to hear of you.” 

“ I had nothing to say.” 

“ You know I came to Paris to find you ?” he 
asked. 

“ No.” 

“ And you had just left ” 

“ I came home after my father died.” 

His glance wandered to the portrait of Francis 
Mowbray — indeed, it could not long keep away. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 195 

He did not wish to speak of it, yet could not 
forbear. 

“ A new painting — of Frank ?” he said. 

“ Yes.” 

“ How we all loved him !” exclaimed Mr. 
Hepburn. 

“ Yes,” said Jeannie again. 

“ The picture ?” he questioned her half fiercely, 
against his own will. 

“The picture? It was painted in France — 
we met him there.” 

“ Why do you keep it here, Jeannie ?” 

“ Why ? Did not we all love him, as you have 
said ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do not look like that,” she said with an 
uneasy smile; “ you seem as if you thought ” 

He caught up her hesitation. 

“ What ?” 

“ He was dead,” she concluded. 

“ I feel as if the Frank we loved was dead — as 
my old self is dead.” 

“ He is alive,” answered Jeannie. 

“ And prosperous ?” 

“ And prosperous.” 

“ I knew it,” said Mr. Hepburn with a strange 
bitterness. 

“ I think he will have a post under the new 
Government.” 

“ You see him often ?” 

“ Often, James.” 

The reply surprised and irritated him. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


196 

“ Will not you be glad to see him again ?” 
she asked gently. 

“ I cannot tell, Jeannie.” 

“ Why should you be doubtful ?” 

11 It is so long ago.” 

“ A few years.” 

“ In matter of emotion, Jeannie, very long 
ago,” he said. 

“ He loves you, you know.” 

“ Ah?” 

“ And speaks of you so frequently.” 

“ Does he speak of the duel ?” asked Mr. Hepburn 
sharply. 

“ Sometimes.” 

Her voice sank in her throat. 

“ But I think it better to forget these things,” 
she added. 

“ They cannot be forgotten, Jeannie.” 

“ They need not be spoken of — but you lulled 
a man for him, and you have a right to remember,” 
she said reluctantly. 

Mr. Hepburn was silent. 

Jeannie drew herself erect in her chair and 
looked at him. 

“You have never regretted it ?” she asked with 
an effort. 

“ That I was his champion ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ No — why should I ?” he demanded keenly. 

“ Indeed, indeed, why ? It was such a foul, 
false accusation — Frank ! They might as well 
have accused the Duke himself 1” 

He was cool before her vehemence. 


“ the SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 197 

I wonder who the spy was/' he said. 

She shuddered with distaste of the subject. 

“ What is the use of thinking of that now ?” 

“ I have had so little else to think of for these 
five years.” 

I hope it was one of those slain.” 

“ Yes — I wonder who. We all seemed equally 
honourable, did we not ? It was a strange piece 
of treachery.” 

“ Why strange ? Our betrayal was the price 
of someone’s pardon.” 

“ I cannot understand it — treachery.” 

Jeannie was silent. 

“ Whoever it was,” he added, “ was your 
brother’s murderer.” 

She stared at him. 

“ It is all over,” she whispered. 

“ Yes — but one thinks of it ” 

“ I have not — for years ” 

“Not when you see Francis Mowbray?” 

“ Then least of all ” 

She rose. 

“You believe in him, then ?” 

“ Believe in him ?” she was amazed, incredulous. 
“ What do you mean ? Did you not establish 
his innocence ?” 

“ I was his champion, certainly.” 

“ But now you are so cold.” 

Her voice was reproachful. 

“ You loved him,” she added. 

“ Loved him, yes, but it is so long ago,” he 
replied, “ and I have had so much idleness in 
which to think.” 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


198 

“ If it is so long ago, why cannot you forget 
about it ?” 

“ One does not forget.” 

“ You must,” said Jeannie impatiently. 

He rose and moved restlessly about the room; 
the sun had gone behind the house-tops and the 
long spring twilight began to fill the room. 

Mr. Hepburn picked up the porridge bowl. 

“ Why do you keep this here, Jeannie ?” 

He looked at her and saw that her eyes were 
full of tears, although she smiled. 

” Do you not remember it ?” 

“ Remember ?” 

” Yes — when you were in hiding, soon after 
you landed on Craigiemuir — and I used to run out 
into the heather with the bowl of porridge for you 
and Francis Mowbray.” 

Always Francis Mowbray — it seemed as if their 
talk could have no other subject. 

“ Was this his or mine ?” 

” His — Frank’s — yours was cracked in the 
bowl.” 

He put it down. 

“ Why do you keep it, Jeannie, when you say 
you want to forget ?” 

“ Some things I like to remember, that is one 
of them, how I used to come out to you in the 
kind heather ” 

“ Is that all you care to remember, Jeannie ?” 
he asked sadly. 

Her placid brows were troubled. 

“ Why do you dwell on those sad old times ?” 


“ the SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 199 

“ Were they sad ?” 

4 ‘ Oh yes — surely.” 

“ Glorious, rather, Jeannie.” 

“ I do not know.” 

11 You prefer this dull peace ?” 

“ Dull ? Is it dull ? I am happy.” 

He was vexed beyond concealment. 

“ Were you not happy then ?” he asked impetu- 
ously and angrily. 

She faced him frankly. 

“ Not so happy.” 

“ How mistaken I was !” 

She threw out her hands in a gesture of pleading 
and defence. 

“ How could one be happy ? Living so — in 
constant peril — to all one loved.” 

“You are a woman after all, Jeannie, an ordinary 
woman.” 

“ I made no pretence to be anything else,” 
she said sadly. 

“ I used to think you a heroine.” 

Jeannie laughed mournfully. 

“ I always wanted peace,” she said wistfully, 
“ and safety for those I loved.” 

“ Ah well, we have all changed — — ” he took 
up his hat ; the cry of his illusion broke from him : 
“ Somehow I dreamed it differently.” 

With an affectionate gesture she took his arm. 

“ You are not leaving me, like this ? James, 
why do you dwell on the past ? Let us forget 
it, please — it was so — unhappy.” 

“ This reminded me.” 


200 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

He nodded towards the portrait of Francis 
Mowbray, which to him was the most insistent 
thing in the room. 

“ How can you keep that there if you wish to 
forget ?” 

“ Oh, James, you loved him.” 

Her eyes were shining ; he thought her expression 
was curious. 

Something hot within him made him ask a 
strange question. 

“ He is married to Margaret ?” 

“ No.” 

The little word chilled him. 

“ Why ?” 

“ She — I do not know,” said Jeannie in a dis- 
tressed voice. 

“ You do know,” he persisted, almost roughly. 
“ What was it ?” 

Her hand dropped from his sleeve. 

“ They quarrelled. She — would not believe in 
him.” 

“ She thought ” 

Their eyes met. 

“ Yes,” said Jeannie desperately, “ she thought 
he had betrayed us.” 

“ And said so ?” 

“ I believe she did.” 

“ She had a courage,” cried Mr. Hepburn, 
“ that little thing !” 

“ That little thing — she is married to a man 
in Ayrshire.” 

“ And Francis ?” 

Jeannie looked at him very earnestly. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 201 


“ James, you and I ought to agree in this 
matter — you championed Francis, and I ” 

“ You, Jeannie, you ?” 

“ I married him.” 

She drew away with a little heartless laugh. 

“You married him ?” 

“ I am his wife these two years — I did not tell 
you at first ” 

She paused to arrange her words. 

“ I thought it would be so pleasant when he 
came in — but you — somehow you have changed 
all — why,” she was rather desperate, “ do you look 
at me like that ?” 

He shook his head. 

In these few seconds she had changed; the old 
Jeannie had left him. 

This was a strange woman, another man’s wife, 
the wife of Francis Mowbray. 

“ What is the matter, James ?” 

She spoke very piteously, and he was sorry for 
her, yet could say nothing. 

“You will stay and meet him ?” 

“ Not now, Jeannie.” 

“ Why ?” 

“ Oh, Jeannie !” 

“You used to love him,” she came back to 
that. 

He had no answer to her words, which were an 
accusation. 

“ I never thought of this, Jeannie, never dreamt 
of it.” 

“ Yet — is it so strange ?” she asked bravely. 

“ And you live here — in the old house !” 


202 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ We live at his place in Fife — his father is 
dead now — but came here a while ago when there 
seemed this chance of his doing something for 
the Government — Frank is like you, James, he 
hates to be idle.” 

She spoke quickly, with a pitiful desire to please, 
but Mr. Hepburn could not respond. 

“ Finding you in the old house, I thought that 
you were unwed,” he said. 

“ I know — it was foolish of me.” 

She sank into the great tapestry chair. 

“ Oh, James, what has happened ?” 

“ Happened, dear ?” 

“ It seems to be spoilt — our meeting.” 

“ There was nothing to spoil — that was my 
mistake, Jeannie.” 

“ Your mistake ?” 

“ Perhaps my coming back at all was a mistake,” 
he said. 

She tried to smile. 

“ Because I am married to Frank ?” 

“ Because of my own foolishness, I suppose.” 

He looked again at the brilliant portrait and then 
at the little porridge bowl. 

She made no attempt to detain him now when 
he prepared to leave. 

“You will come back ?” she asked. 

“ Certainly I will come back — I am but a short 
time in Edinburgh.” 

“Yet come again — and see him — Francis.” 

He read a challenge in her clear, dark eyes. 

“ Certainly I must see Francis,” he replied 
smoothly; “ your husband, Jeannie 1” 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 203 

“ My husband/' she said gently. 

He turned from her look of love. 

When he was out in the street he shook himself 
as a man would do who is recovering from a 
physical blow. 

And very slowly he went down the chill, darken- 
ing street towards his cheerless lodging. 

Why had he never thought, he asked himself, 
of a thing so simple, so obvious ? 

Of course Margaret Sinclair, small-souled, 
practical, would have disbelieved the man, and 
of course Jeannie, lofty, devoted, loyal, and 
romantic, would champion him — even to the gift 
of herself, pitying him until her compassion 
blossomed into love. (For he had no doubt at 
all that now she loved Francis.) 

From his knowledge of human nature and of 
these two women, he might have known which 
of them would marry Francis Mowbray. 

But he had never guessed — he had let the thing 
happen. 

He cursed himself for a bitter fool. 

Jeannie had done a dreadful thing, Jeannie 
had made a hideous mistake. 

And he had been the primary cause. 

Her cry — “ Did not you establish his innocence !” 
rang horribly in his heart. 

From the seed of his acted lie had sprung this 
dreadful fruit of her marriage. 

She had believed — in her impetuous goodness — 
the honour he had so madly championed. 

Championed, knowing the truth. 


204 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Knowing that Francis Mowbray was guilty — 
guilty as hell. 

A traitor and the cause of the death of young 
Ensign Duncan, Jeannie’s brother — cause of the 
death of those others executed in Edinburgh. 

It all seemed to him unreal — as anything of 
unexpected horror will seem. 

And through all the horror he felt very clearly 
the amazement at his own change of attitude 
towards Francis. 

For he certainly had loved Francis; knowing 
his guilt he had championed him and had felt 
no remorse or regret in so doing, no remorse in 
killing the Englishman who had spoken the truth. 

So strong had been his love and loyalty for 
Francis, so strong the charm and fascination of 
the young man, that he had rushed forward blindly 
to silence his accuser and given no thought to 
the right or wrong of the thing. 

Now these stood out with horrid clearness. 

Coarse, crude, unsympathetic as the Englishman 
had been, he had been right. 

And Francis, the lovable, the gallant, had been 
damnably wrong. 

Mr. Hepburn had always tried to forget the scene 
in which Francis had been proved guilty; now 
he recalled it with cruel clearness. 

It had been early in that fatal night while the 
party of fugitives, wet from a passing storm, 
had stopped at a deserted farm. 

Francis had been with Mr. Hepburn in the cow- 
byre, when Morton the Englishman had rushed 
in with his accusation. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 205 


11 You betrayed us, damn you, Mowbray — 
what is this ?” and he had held out a paper, 
“ you left this in Colonel Duncan’s house — ’tis 
written to the King’s men.” 

And before James Hepburn could speak, Francis 
had snatched the paper and thrust it into his 
shirt bosom. 

“ Yes, I wrote it — what else ?” 

And James, acting on a violent impulse, had 
struck young Morton over the face. 

“You always wanted to ruin Mowbray,” he 
said, “ but this shall ruin you.” 

The other, gasping with fury, tugged at his 
sword ; but there * came a quick alarm that the 
soldiers were after them, and they mounted on 
the instant and rode through the heather. 

During that wild, dark ride, Francis had kept 
close to his friend. 

“ I did it,” he had whispered once; “ you can 
denounce me if you like.” 

James had affected not to hear. 

Again had come the beloved voice. 

“ Will you still fight for me ?” 

And still Mr. Hepburn had not answered. 

When all had gathered again in the shelter of 
the barn he had acted instantly. 

“Mr. Morton called Frank the traitor — you 
know he always hated Frank — I’ll silence him — 
now.” 

And his sword was out and the two were at it 
in red earnest. 

In such a little while Morton was silenced 
indeed, and the thing seemed over. 


20 6 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Now he knew that had only just begun — at 
least for him, for Jeannie and for Francis. 

He thought of Francis more than he thought 
of Jeannie. 

His enthusiasm being quite dead, the behaviour 
of his friend seemed of an incredible baseness; he 
had deliberately taken advantage of his falsely 
established innocence to win a woman who could 
have scorned him with bitter loathing had she 
known the truth. 

And then there was the brother — he might 
well be called the murderer of young Duncan, 
and of Morton too. 

An ugly thing to be between husband and wife — 
what kind of man was the fellow to live with that 
on his conscience 1 

Prosperous ! — so she had said. 

No doubt he was prosperous; probably he had 
taken the price of his treachery — and now he was 
in with this Government — a man who would always 
be on the safe side. 

And Jeannie adored him — or rather, she adored 
the false Francis that he, James, had helped to 
create. 

He could not go home, but remained walking 
the cold streets. 

The moon rose above the house-tops, faintly 
lighting the primrose sky against which the straight 
houses showed black. 

James wandered towards the castle; his heart 
was as chill as the night air that blew on his cheeks 
and struggled with his cloak. 

He wondered why he cared so fiercely — he had 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 207 


ceased to love Francis — he had ceased to hope for 
Jeannie. 

He had always known that Frank was base — 
and yet the knowledge of this marriage seemed to 
have revealed this baseness for the first time as 
it had revealed the goodness, the almost foolish 
nobility of Jeannie. 

His thoughts turned to the other woman. 

He was surprised at her intuition; she had 
always seemed insignificant, even stupid. 

But the little people were always sharp for the 
low side of others — Jeannie had been blinded by 
her own loftiness. 

She had stepped into the trap the common wits 
of Margaret Sinclair had avoided. 

He remembered how magnificently she had 
borne herself during the duel, holding aloft the 
candle to light the swords while Margaret had 
cowered in a corner weeping. 

Well, Margaret was out of it, and Jeannie was 
chained for life to a hideous lie. 

“ And I,” thought Mr. Hepburn, “ had better 
return as I came ” 

There was no excuse for him to interfere; he 
believed they were happy. 

Yet he had an obstinate desire to destroy that 
happiness by telling the truth. 

He had a desire to make Francis pay — at last. 

A desire that he should lose Jeannie, that he 
should know the scorn with which she would 
receive the real man he had masked so long. 

Yet he felt that the gratification of such a desire 
would bring him to the level of Francis. 


208 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


And certainly it would break Jeannie 's heart. 

Between them they would kill her, as between 
them they had already involved her in the tragedy 
she now unconsciously acted. 

No, he could not tell Jeannie. 

He would go away again and try to forget — 
let the years pass over and dim the thing. 

But he felt a wish to see and speak with Francis 
first. 

A wish to try if the old charm still existed, if 
looking upon the man he would find it easier to 
forgive him. 

With this resolve he turned back to his lodging 
and sent a boy with a note to Francis asking him 
to see him on the morrow. 

It was strange to address to Francis at Colonel 
Duncan’s house. 

His hand shook as he wrote, and he could not 
wholly control the jealous bitterness that surged 
up in his heart. 

He slept but little that night, and every hour 
found him in an increasing agitation. 

There had been no answer to his note, and he 
took this to mean that Francis would be awaiting 
him. 

With a painful reluctance he faced the sweet 
morning and the familiar streets, and went to 
the house that was no longer a pleasant habitation 
to him. 

He was shown into the room where he had seen 
Jeannie yesterday. 

As before, the brilliant portrait held and chal- 
lenged his gaze. 


44 the SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 209 


He stared at it, hoping by this means to prepare 
himself for the vivid personality of the real man 
whose fascination he wished most ardently to 
withstand. 

But it was Jeannie who entered. 

“ You thought to see Frank ?” 

“ Yes.” 

He looked at her with great reverence and great 
tenderness. 

He did not get your letter, James. I opened 
it — I wanted to see you again before you saw 
him.” 

“ Yes ?” 

He was a little troubled by her words and by 
the seriousness of her manner. 

She seated herself in the full light of the window, 
very upright. 

She wore a white gown with a silver sprig in 
the silk mesh of the stuff and a high tucker of 
gathered lawn ; he thought she had dressed herself 
with care in her best for his sake, and was touched, 
and still further troubled. 

“ I have not slept all night,” said Jeannie 
deliberately. “ I lay awake thinking of your 
visit and what you said.” 

She put back the curls from her forehead with 
shaking hand. 

“ You were strange, James, but I think I under- 
stand; nay, I am sure I understand what you 
meant to say.” 

“ Nothing, nothing,” he stammered. 

“ Oh, I read you 1 ” she cried. “ You think 
Frank guilty.” 




210 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


He was too utterly amazed to speak — amazed 
more at her calm than her words. 

“ Perhaps you always thought so,” she continued. 
“ Anyhow, you do now. You believe he was a 
traitor.” 

He sat silent with a downcast face, startled by 
the strange weakness of his limbs. 

“ I thought that might be your belief,” said 
Jeannie — her glance travelled to the portrait; 
“ during these years I have sometimes wondered 
if you were really loyal to him.” 

Now he was stung into speech. 

“ Loyal ! I have been dumb — I have been 
more than loyal.” 

“ No,” said she, “ for in your heart you did not 
believe.” 

“You reproach me with that ?” 

He was lashed by her injustice. 

“ Yes — you should have known that he, Frank, 
was incapable of any baseness — how was it you 
did not know him better ?” 

“You never doubted then ?” 

“ Never. Can you tell me the same ?” 

“ No, Jeannie.” 

“ Then I will prove you were wrong.” There 
was an extraordinary look in her eyes. 

“ Prove?” 

“ Yes.” 

He was helpless in his bewilderment. 

“You cannot prove the truth to be false,” he 
said amazedly. 

“ You do not know the truth.” 

“ Poor Jeannie !” he cried desperately. 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 21 1 


“Nay — listen — will you hear the truth? I 
was the traitor.” 

He rose and peered at her, quite blankly. 

“ You never thought of that, did you ?” she 
continued desperately. “Not one of you guessed. 
I told him when I saw the surprise had failed ancl 
that I had lost the letter to the King's officer — no 
one but a woman would have been so stupid, 
would they ? Stupid to lose the thing, even in 
that confusion. I was frightened, I asked him to 
save me — Morton found the paper and chose to 
fix it on the one he had always hated — you know 
what happened.” 

His lips moved several seconds before he found 
two words. 

“ Your brother ?” 

“ I know — I know.” 

Again two words : 

“ Your price ?” 

“ Pardon for myself — my father and Francis. 
I did it for them. I saw the enterprise was 
doomed — a stupid woman sees those things. I 
cared for nothing but saving Francis — I care for 
nothing but Francis now.” 

“ Yet you put this on him ?” 

“ I was a coward.” 

“ You let Margaret think him guilty ?” 

“ Yes — so he was free to come to me.” 

If the sun had sunk into darkness at midday 
he could not have been more shocked and amazed 
with horror than he was now by this discovery of 
the soul of Jeannie. 

He stared at her as at a beautiful thing 


212 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

suddenly broken — lying in useless shreds at his 
feet. 

She was too low for contempt, even for pity. 

“ Yes, Francis loves you ?” he said drearily. 

“ He loves me/’ her trembling voice was yet 
triumphant. 

“ But I,” said James, “ could not even hate you 
now.” 

“ I had to tell you.” 

“ I wonder why.” 

“ I could not bear you should think that Frank 
was base.” 

“ You do not care what I think of you ?” 

“ Oh — I am only a woman.” 

He turned away without saying farewell, nor 
did she ask this word, though she knew that she 
would never see him again. 

As he left the room his glance fell on the little 
porridge bowl. 

He recalled how she had come to them in the 
heather, and the tears rushed up to his eyes. 

A backward look at Jeannie showed her sitting 
with folded hands, her face averted. 

He found himself wandering in the street, 
amazed at his own grief, astonished at the foolish- 
ness of life. As he reached the corner he saw 
Frank Mowbray going towards his home. 

The winning face was unchanged; he looked 
a happy man. 

James stared after him and watched him enter 
the house. 

As he did so he was pierced by a thought that 


“ THE SOUL OF JEANNIE DUNCAN ” 213 


reinstated Jeannie in glory a thousand times 
triumphantly — in glory. 

Supposing she had lied to cover Frank's dis- 
honour ? He dared not think this true — it was 
but a sign of his own weakness that he must still 
try to exalt her even now. 

And yet 

In any case he could do nothing but leave them 
to their love. 


IX.— THE SCARLET ROSE 


No. 4037 . — A cup of Sevres porcelain; powder blue , 
painted with a scene of ladies walking in a park. 
French mid. eighteenth century. 

Julie was a peasant girl whom the caprice of a great 
lord had brought to Paris. 

He wished to see, he said, how a wild rose would 
change in a hothouse. 

But Julie did not change at all, and he soon be- 
came tired of watching her, and left her to her own 
devices. 

She was not sorry, for he had never attracted her. 
Paris and not he had fetched her from her dull 
village. 

She had learnt dancing to please Monseigneur, 
and now she began dancing in the ballet in the Opera- 
Comique. 

After she had been there a week M. de Morny 
fell in love with her and took her away from the 
stage. 

Julie was very happy now, for she was much in 
love with M. de Morny. 

He established her in his “ petite maison ” at 
Auteuil. She had never seen such splendour, for 
Monsiegneur had only given her rooms near St. 

214 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


215 

Germain du Pres, in a turretted, rather dreary- 
house. 

So, in the spring of 1747 we find Julie, a small, 
foolish detail of this marvellous wicked Paris sunk 
in all the ways of corruption known of old to the 
cities of the plain, and in a good many more of her 
own invention — Paris, shimmering with brilliant 
colours on the surface of her rottenness like the 
rainbow lights on a stagnant pool. Here was Julie, 
loving and beloved, safe at Auteuil, knowing noth- 
ing of the affairs of the world and caring nothing, 
looking upon Paris as but a great shop where she 
might drive in her rose-lined chariot and buy what 
she chose. 

In her childhood she had been given to fits and 
trances, had seen visions of the saints and angels, 
and once for nearly a week had lain unconscious, 
muttering only the name of the Virgin Mary. She 
would have been sent into a convent if her parents 
had not wished her to help on the little farm. 

This frustration of her desires had thrown her in 
an illness which had left her too weak to help in 
farm or any other work. 

She took to wandering about the fields and dream- 
ing of the saints and holy nuns of whom the cure 
had told her. And there she might have stayed had 
she not chanced to be beautiful, with the frail, fair, 
spiritual, yet voluptuous beauty that the paintings 
of Frangois Boucher had then made very much the 
fashion. Monsiegneur had met her, had talked 
to her of Paris. 

Her visions changed in quality, the beauty of 
life appealed to her feeble brain as the beauty of 
renunciation had appealed. 


21 6 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


And, as she had, despite her former longings for 
a religious life, very little knowledge of good and 
evil, she had been easily persuaded to follow Mon- 
seigneur to Paris. 

At first she had been homesick and so entirely 
stupid that Monseigneur had regretted his experi- 
ment of transplantation. 

Now M. de Morny had discovered her she was 
no longer homesick; her short memory held no 
place for regrets. 

She chanced to please entirely the jaded and 
capricious taste of her lover ; she had, he considered, 
all the feminine virtues. 

That is to say, beauty, taste, docility, affection — 
her stupidity did not annoy him, and he did not 
know about the trances and the conventual lean- 
ings; Julie, being happy, showed no sign of swoons 
or hysteria. 

She was as soft and loving as the most exacting 
vanity could wish, and she possessed in perfection 
two qualities — her beauty and her taste. 

As to the first she was a freak of nature, born of 
a peasant stock yet fragile as a figure of bisque 
china, exquisite as to hands and feet, pale yet 
brilliant in colouring, pure and childlike in expres- 
sion, yet full of a thousand unconscious coquetries 
and graces. 

And her taste had never gone astray; she knew, 
by some deep instinct, all about clothes and adorn- 
ments both of her house and her table; she could 
be trusted to choose an equipage or a flower with 
a perfect sense of what the occasion demanded. 

She had no idea of management, of money — 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


217 


she scarcely knew the coinage of the kingdom ; she 
was, as M. de Morny had told a friend, one of those 
expensive trifles that might easily ruin a man in a 
few months. 

But he did not intend to be ruined, he had all the 
wits Julie lacked, and he liked her expensiveness; 
it flattered his pride and justified his choice. The 
confidential steward who ran his “ petite maison ” 
controlled the purse, and inside the wide limits of 
his allowance (M. de Morny was far richer and more 
important than Julie would ever have been able to 
understand) she spent what she would. 

Not a minute of her day was either dull or sad; 
she had her beautiful rooms to arrange, her charm- 
ing little garden to attend, her kittens, her dog, her 
monkey and her parrot, her maid, Dorine, to chatter 
with, her visits to the shops, the visits of the milli- 
ner, the dressmaker, the silk merchant, the jeweller. 

And then the comings of M. de Morny, the god 
who had provided all these bewilderments of joy. 
Sometimes he came in the afternoons, sometimes 
in the evenings — sometimes for a week together 
he would not come at all. 

And Julie was so happy that she scarcely missed 
him. 

She was really living in a fairy tale, and no ques- 
tion of any kind entered her heart. 

She never troubled what he was doing when he 
was not with her, nor what sort of a world he lived 
in, nor why no one came to see her, nor whyshe was 
never allowed out alone. 

She never even asked herself how long this was 
going to last. 


218 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


And therefore she was happy. 

As she could neither read nor write he was spared 
sending her notes and verses, but every morning 
arrived a basket of fruit and flowers to remind her 
of him when he was not there. 

He was always expecting to find Julie bored or 
cross or in tears when he returned after one of his 
long absences. 

He thought to find her soon begin to crave for 
other admiration, for the theatre, for suppers, for 
friends to admire her luxury. 

But Julie proved different to all his other experi- 
ences, she was always smiling, always content — she 
seemed to know of no existence beyond him and his 
house. 

Never before had he been able to keep one of his 
toys so secret. 

And he was afraid to keep her anything but 
secret, for he could not tell how soon she might be 
spoilt. 

He had a great and rather unreasonable desire 
to preserve her ignorance. 

And yet sometimes her sheer placidity irritated 
him, he was appalled at her stupidity, almost angry 
at her unquestioning content. 

“ Would she live like this all her life ?” he asked 
himself. 

It seemed that she would. 

The spring of 1748 came, and she was the same 
as she had been a year ago. 

M. de Morny was not yet tired of her. 

He admitted that he was very fond of her, and, 
if he did not see her very often, and she never com- 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


219 

plained of neglect, she supplied all the frivolity he 
needed in his busy life. 

Certainly she was still expensive, but the result 
of her spendings always pleased his exquisite and 
exacting taste. 

It happened in the spring of 1748 that a wave of 
piety spread over Paris. 

Ladies left their pleasures to retire (for a time) 
into convents. 

Good works and holy living became a kind of 
crazy fashion stuck strangely on the mode of the 
life of Paris. 

The cause of this hysterical enthusiasm, this 
feverish excitement for the piquancy of goodness, 
was supposed to be Cardinal Duplessis. 

His eloquence and his fame brought thousands 
to hear his sermons in Saint Sulpice, and his in- 
fluence was far-reaching and wonderful — especially 
among women. 

Even Julie, in her little flowered backwater, 
heard of it. 

Buying silk in Paris the story came to her ears; 
the milliner bringing her new hat spoke of Cardinal 
Duplessis. 

A chord long silent was touched in Julie’s 
heart; at last there was a tiny cloud on her sun- 
lit sky. 

When next M. de Morny came to see her he found 
her slightly sad for the first time since he had known 
her. 

She was out in the garden, near the fountain, 
seated in her favourite latticed arbour, which was 
a mass of jasmine and small pink roses. 


220 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

Her white cat was at her feet, a cage of doves 
hung above her head. 

It was all, M. de Morny thought, quite charming 
and idyllic. 

Except for the slightly sad look in Julie’s china 
blue eyes. 

This vexed him. 

He was so used to the serenity of Julie, to see her 
disturbed was like missing the rising of the sun 
would have been. 

“ What is the matter ?” he asked. 

She looked at him, wondering if she could tell 
him what was the matter. 

Her glance was vague ; she had not realised him 
clearly, any more than anything in her short and 
simple life. 

He was to her rather a nebulous glory as was suit- 
able to the respect in which she held him and the 
part he had played in her fortunes. 

She did not see the fine detail of his dark com- 
posed features — too wide the face was for perfect 
handsomeness, otherwise of great attraction — she 
had never noticed the curious power and brightness 
of his long brown eyes, the constant play of expres- 
sion that changed his mobile mouth, an expression 
generally of cynical amusement, but sometimes 
passionate, grave or severe. 

To Julie he was just M. de Morny, the splendour 
from whom flowed all the joys that had made her 
life so radiant for the last year; she never noticed 
details save the details of clothes. 

Now she was puzzling how to express herself, and 
did not notice his vexation at her mood. 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


221 


“ Things happen in Paris/’ she said at last. 

“ Do they?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And what has happened in particular ?” 

“ Cardinal Duplessis,” said Julie reverently. 

His glance fiercely flashed for a second. 

“ Is this a jest ?” he asked. 

“ Oh no,” answered Julie. “ He does not jest. 
He is a Cardinal, a holy man. Perhaps you have 
heard of him ?” 

He kept his eyes fixed on her as if wishful to 
discover if she was sincere; then, convinced that 
she was not, and, after all, it was impossible to 
imagine Julie making a mock of him, or any one, 
he smiled. 

“ Well, I have certainly heard of the Cardinal,” 
he answered, pulling at the red roses above his head, 
“ but I cannot see why he should disturb your peace 
of mind, Julie.” 

She was glad of the phrase. 

“ That is what he does do — disturb my peace of 
mind.” 

M. de Morny was amused. 

“ How ?” he asked. 

“ He — he makes me feel that I am not good, 
Monseigneur.” 

11 Child, child, have you a conscience after all?” 
he mocked. 

But her lovely eyes held an unblenching serious- 
ness of purpose. 

“ Wicked people are frightened because of what 
he says — the milliner told me.” 

” Are you wicked ?” 


222 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Am I ?” she asked anxiously. 

He laughed. 

But Julie added gravely: 

“ It is not a light thing — Hell.” 

“ What do you know of it ?” 

“ A good deal. The cur£ used to tell me.” 

“ Oh, the cur6.” 

u He was a holy man.” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“ But not as holy as a Cardinal, of course.” 

“ Of course not.” 

He was still looking at her very curiously had she 
had eyes to notice. 

Nor did she hear the mocking intonation of his 
answers. 

“ I wished to be a novice,” said Julie; “ after all, 
perhaps it would have been a better life.” 

A look of relief swept into his intent eyes; she 
was certainly a simpleton. 

“ But you would not have been so well dressed, 
Julie,” he said gently. 

“ No.” 

Her dreamy gaze travelled past him. 

“ Cardinals wear scarlet,” she added. 

“ Have you seen one ?” 

“ At home,” she added with a certain pride, 
“ there is a picture in the church — a Cardinal who 
was a very great saint. He wears scarlet.” 

“ I believe,” said M. de Morny, ” they do — some- 
times.” 

Julie was absorbed in her own thoughts. 

“ It is no light thing — Hell,” she repeated. 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


223 


“ Ah, well/’ said M. de Morny, “ there is really 
no need for us to consider it.” 

Julie gave him a wistful look. 

People are repenting — in Paris.” 

He roused himself to take her seriously. 

Julie ! Why do you speak of these things ?” 

She could not be diverted from her grave medi- 
tation. 

“ Cardinal E^uplessis must be a great man.” 

The repetition of this name seemed to irritate 
M. de Morny. 

“ There is no need to think of him.” 

“ Others do.” 

“ Perhaps — but you ” 

“ Oh, I,” her lip suddenly quivered — “ I used to 
see saints and angels — now I never do.” 

He regarded her critically; this was certainly a 
new Julie; he had never thought of her as hysterical 
or likely to see visions. 

“ Saints and angels !” his fine eyebrows lifted. 

“ I used to see them,” she repeated. “ The 
Madonna and Saint Gabriel.” 

“ Have you missed them ?” 

“No. I have had so much else, you see, Mon- 
seigneur, but hearing of this made me think of them 
again. I dreamt of them last night.” 

M. de Morny began to be vexed. 

“ Julie, I do not like to hear these things.” 

His air of authority quelled her, but she drew a 
little away from him. 

He took a white satin case from the pocket of 
his steel-blue satin coat. 

She did not sparkle as was usual with her when 


224 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


receiving his gifts; he noticed this and handed her 
the case in silence. 

Julie opened it with timid fingers. 

It contained a little rose beautifully carved in 
ivory, and stained a vivid scarlet ; a fine gold chain 
was attached. 

“ It reminds me,” said Julie, “ of Cardinal Du- 
plessis — scarlet — a scarlet rose.” 

He had not credited her with so much imagina- 
tion; he was vexed at her persistency in a subject 
that he was weary of; altogether he was surprised 
and disappointed in Julie to-day. 

She hung the ornament round her neck ; it glowed 
above her heart, a strange spot of colour on her pale 
gown. 

M. de Morny rose lazily, stretching his graceful 
figure. Julie did not look at him; her thoughts 
were still with the saints and angels who had once 
been her companions and who had so long since 
gone for ever. 

The roses and the jasmine were lovely against 
the blue sky, the clear water trickled fairly in the 
marble basin, a soft breeze ruffled the feathers of 
the white doves that fluttered across the close green 
lawns, but the delicate figure of Julie was no longer 
in keeping with this gentle picture. 

Her head drooped, there was no gaiety in her 
face, and her hands were folded on her lap as they 
had been when she used to sit dreaming beside her 
placid sheep. 

M. de Morny looked at her between amazement 
and irritation. 

She had broken the spell of his peaceful mood, 


THE SCARLET ROSE 225 

he had not this time tasted the perfect serenity to 
which he looked forward, and which he had hitherto 
enjoyed, on his visits to Julie in her luxurious 
retreat. 

He wished to leave her, and return to his world ; 
if she was not going to be sensible he would leave 
her altogether, he decided. 

Yet he was aware of a certain pathos in her sad 
attitude, and before he left he stooped and kissed 
her, very tenderly, on the bowed fair head. 

Julie was not aware that the visit had been spoilt ; 
she hardly noticed that he did not stay to share her 
dejeuner ; her childish mind had wandered from her 
lover. 

The next day she went to Paris with Dorine ; she 
did not stay long with the milliners and mantua- 
makers. 

She directed that her gay little cabriolet should 
be driven to Saint Sulpice. 

Dorine protested, but Julie took no heed; she 
dismounted as eagerly before the great dark door 
as if she had been entering the most enticing bonnet 
shop in Paris. 

Dorine, frightened, clung to her flowered skirts. 
Julie pushed her way through the crowd that con- 
tained many as worldly-looking as herself. 

The vastness of the interior, the dim light of the 
coloured lamps hazed by the smoke of the incense, 
the reverent silence of the people, brought the tears 
to Julie’s eyes. 

A scarlet figure was descending from the high- 
placed pulpit. 

As Julie looked he disappeared, and a slight mur- 

15 


226 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


mur like a breath of relief after strong tension 
broke from the congregation. 

The sermon of Cardinal Duplessis was over. 

Julie began to weep ; the atmosphere of the place 
drugged her; she swayed on her feet, trembling. 

Dorine dragged her away into the clear light of 
the square. 

“ Mon Dieu ! What would M. de Morny say !” 
she exclaimed nervously. 

But Julie wept unheedingly. 

A fat cleric was handing leaflets in the doorway. 

One was thrust into Julie’s hand. 

She clutched it eagerly, and her ignorant eyes 
pitifully scanned the printed page. 

“ It is a sermon of the Cardinal Duplessis,” said 
Dorine. “ If you come away, Madame, I will read 
it to you.” 

Julie returned silently to the frivolous little 
chariot and silently to Auteuil. 

But she did not forget Dorine’s promise. 

That evening, instead of teasing the monkey, 
nursing the cat, or talking scandal, Dorine, between 
yawns of boredom and tears of vexation, had to 
read the sermon of Cardinal Duplessis. 

Julie, seated on a couch of gilt wood and shining 
grey satin, listened in a rapt silence. 

Her hands were clasped on her befrilled lap, and 
her face was pale and anxious — a strange little face 
with its doll-like beauty, at once foolish and volup- 
tuous, and that expression of distress and gravity 
contrasting with the frail contours, the delicate 
rouge and powder, the gossamer curls which were 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


227 

too light to sustain even the chaplet of seed pearls 
that preened among them. 

Julie’s shoes, of pink satin, had diamonds in the 
heels and butterflies painted on the soles; they 
showed beneath the billows of her rose-coloured 
skirts. 

Julie’s eyes passed from gravity to tragedy in 
their expression as she listened to the words of 
Cardinal Duplessis. 

Dorine had neither wit nor patience to invent — 
she read what was before her with a voice sharp 
with irritation at this whim of her mistress. 

But her pert intonation could not destroy the 
power of the great Cardinal’s sentences. 

They shook the blind ignorant soul of Julie as they 
had shaken the awakened cynical soul of Paris. 

They moved her as the bells of the village church 
in her native village, as the earnest words of the 
humble cure had moved her. She forgot the painted 
boudoir and saw again the soft fields veiled with 
dew — the cropping sheep, the wide expanse of sky 
and the visions that had come to her when she had 
sat there, cold and often hungry, beneath the remote 
and rustling poplar trees in the early still mornings. 

Cardinal Duplessis wrote of Time and Death and 
Judgment. 

His was a rare and moving eloquence. Julie did 
not know this, but she did know that she was 
stirred as she had never been stirred by anything — 
not even by the splendour of Paris or the love of 
M. de Morny, or the life this love had opened out 
to her. 


228 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


Before her eyes glimpsed an obscure vision, dim 
yet touched with glory, full of wondrous figures 
and half-seen shapes in the centre of which was the 
awful scarlet figure of Cardinal Duplessis. 

The lazy flat voice of the vexed maid stumbled 
over the magnificent sentences of the great preacher. 

He spoke of corruption — with keen and bitter 
scorn he tore the glittering veil from the lives of his 
contemporaries and showed that the outward bril- 
liancy was but as the poisonous colours on foul and 
stagnant waters ; he showed vice, hideous, ghastly, 
decked in the hues and emblems of disease lurking 
behind the pretty roses and the garlanded cupids ; 
he showed the loathesomeness of folly, the wicked- 
ness of luxury and idleness, the horrible end of these 
things — no less than hell mouth. 

“ Hell opened on earth,” said the Cardinal, “ and 
hell hereafter for all eternity.” 

With a whip as of scorpions he lashed the guilt 
of his generation, with caustic emphasis he showed 
the hollowness of pleasure and the bitter payment 
that would be exacted for present indulgence. He 
stripped the tinsel from the dainty figures of such 
as Julie, and showed them as what they were — 
“ the devil’s baits ” — at best poor puppets pulled 
by the strings of evil. 

Julie did not understand all the Cardinal said; 
she did not know, even by name, half the sins to 
which he referred, and she had hardly knowledge 
of good and evil. 

But she was acutely aware of the difference be- 
tween the lost and the saved, the damned and the 
blest, Heaven and Hell. 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


229 


It was the one thing that had ever been taught 
her, the one thing she had, all her life, thoroughly 
grasped. 

And all the involved denunciations and glowing 
rhetoric of the Cardinal bore to her this one mean- 
ing — that she was a sinner, sunk and lost in sin, as 
in the white convent on which she had turned her 
back she would have been saved, even, perhaps, 
blessed. 

For the Cardinal was eloquent on the beauty 
and holiness of renunciation, of the merit of the 
conventual life, the peace, the security of these 
saintly retreats, which, like flowers rising from mud, 
redeemed the general corruption of the land. 

This much Julie understood. 

When Dorine had finished and the pamphlet fell 
from her tired fingers, Julie sat motionless with 
blank eyes. 

The maid slipped away, but Julie did not notice 
her absence nor did she ring for candles. 

When she at length rose her limbs were cramped 
from too long sustaining one attitude; she felt a 
little giddy and her head ached. 

Her fingers clutched at the scarlet rose on her 
heart, which seemed to her to be a mystic emblem 
of that flower of holiness, Cardinal Duplessis, and 
before her eyes swam strange lights and deep dark- 
nesses. 

She stumbled over the spindle-legged furniture 
and tried to call out for candles, but could not. 

She heard Dorine laughing in the garden and the 
sound braced her; shivering like a frightened child 
she crept up to bed. 


230 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


The next morning she awoke with a fever, but 
M. de Moray was coming, and Julie understood that 
she must show no altered demeanour to him; she 
wished that she could be alone that day, but duti- 
fully prepared herself for the reception of her 
master. 

Dorine, who had absolutely forgotten the incident 
of yesterday, brought a new gown to Julie's bed- 
side; the fine texture of muslin, shot with gold and 
silver threads, the slender ribbons of deep purple 
velvet, and the little bouquets of satin flowers in 
pink and lavender with gold leaves aroused Julie’s 
spirits. 

She laughed and chattered as gaily as usual, but 
she could not dismiss the vision conjured up by the 
words of Cardinal Duplessis, nor the dreams that 
had troubled her feverish sleep. 

M. de Moray noticed her hot hand and her too 
brilliant eyes. 

She was a changed Julie, without a doubt. He 
began to be interested in this different being. He 
missed her sweet serenity that had pleased him so 
long; but he watched her curiously with a sense 
that his peasant girl had not been a failure — just 
when he was beginning to tire of her as a lover 
she had discovered an entirely new side of her 
character to him, thereby still holding him — this 
was what, he reflected, so many women had failed 
to do. 

“ What is disturbing you, Julie?” he asked. 

They sat over their coffee by the open window 
that looked on the garden where the flowers were 
massed in the sunshine under the blue. 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


231 


She blushed and looked down ; she was too simple 
to disguise her trouble. 

“ I went to hear Cardinal Duplessis,” she said. 

“ Went to hear him ?” 

“ At Saint Sulpice.” 

M. de Morny appeared startled, a rare thing for 
him; a look of suspicion flashed into his keen eyes. 

“ Are you jesting with me, child ?” he asked 
sternly. 

Her tears rose at his harsh tone. 

“Why should I jest with Monseigneur ?” she 
trembled. 

“ Why, indeed ?” his tone was lighter, he leant 
forward and took her hand. “ What did the Car- 
dinal say ?”he added. 

She was warmed into a full confidence. 

“ I heard nothing — it was over when I reached 
the church. ” 

“You saw His Eminence ?” 

“ Yes — oh, Monseigneur, he must be a wonderful 
man! A saint!” 

“ So they say.” 

“ A saint,” she repeated reverently. “ They gave 
me his sermon at the door — Dorine read it to me.” 

“ Dorine ?” 

“ Yes — Monsieur forgets that I cannot read.” 

“ No — I had not forgotten, Julie.” 

“ He is wonderful,” said Julie — she had not a 
great choice of words. 

“ Would you like to meet him ?” 

A painful flush suffused her childish face. 

“ Meet him ?” 

“ Yes.” 


232 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Cardinal Duplessis ?” 

“ Yes.” 

The blood burnt in her cheeks like a great rose 
of shame. 

” How could I — a sinner ?” she stammered. 

“ So you think you are a sinner, Julie ?” 

“ I know I am,” she said. 

“ Poor Julie !” 

11 And you, Monsieur — and all Paris,” she in- 
sisted with a certain doggedness. 

“ All sinners and all condemned to Hell, eh, 
Julie ?” he smiled. 

An awful look came into her wide eyes. 

“ Oh, Jesu, what shall I do ?” she exclaimed. 

The man who was so critically and coolly watch- 
ing her was surprised by this look of anguish; he 
had seldom seen that expression in a young face, 
never on a fair young face, and his experience was 
wide — decidedly Julie was an interesting experi- 
ment. 

“ You ought to have gone into a convent,” he 
said. 

“ Yes,” answered Julie. 

“ Well,” he said, playing with her, “ there is still 
time.” 

” No,” she replied. 

” It is never too late, Julie — if you wish I will 
take you to Cardinal Duplessis and he shall tell you 
so.” 

“ Monseigneur — I have not the courage.” 

M. de Morny laughed. 

“ He is not so terrible.” 

“ He is a saint, I dare not approach him.” 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


233 


“ You should certainly be in a convent.” 

Julie began to weep. 

And she did not weep like a child, but with a cer- 
tain tragic bitterness. 

Surprising tears, M. de Morny thought, for Julie 
to shed. 

He watched her with negligent curiosity; his 
cold heart was not much moved by her distress, 
though he did not lack tenderness for Julie, but his 
keen and brilliant brain was amused and interested 
as it had seldom been. 

Fair penitents were the fashion in Paris just now 
— M. de Morny had seen many of them, but he had 
not observed one who was sincere — as Julie was 
obviously sincere. 

Strange — this little stupid thing from the coun- 
try, who had so eagerly and joyously accepted 
luxury and pleasure — had she truly that spark of 
divine madness that made the ascetic and the 
saint ? 

M. de Morny had hitherto scarcely believed in 
such people, but he could not disbelieve in Julie 
and in Julie’s tears. 

“ Child,” he said, ” how can I teach you that you 
weep for nothing ?” 

She raised her flushed and distorted face. 

“ Nothing?” 

” Since there is no Hell, Julie, and you weep for 
fear of it ” 

She recoiled. 

“ Monseigneur jests !” 

He could not forbear a smile at her genuine 
horror; it amused him to shock this bigotry that 


234 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

was so alien to his sceptical mind and his scoffing 
world. 

44 I am in earnest, Julie — no one any longer be- 
lieves in Hell.” 

” But Cardinal Duplessis,” she stammered — 44 his 
— his sermons ?” 

44 Being a Cardinal he must occasionally preach, 
my dear.” 

“ Oh !” 

44 Being an ambitious man and an eloquent man 
he preaches well — that is all.” 

44 But he is a saint 1 ” 

44 I do not think so.” 

44 But — what he says !” 

44 That is his 4 metier/ ” 

She was shrinking from him with distrust; with 
every word he said she felt that he was wicked, as 
wicked as herself, that he was trying to lead and 
inveigle her from the truth, from holiness and sal- 
vation as represented by Cardinal Duplessis. 

A feeling that was near despair took possession 
of her trembling heart. 

She leant back in her satin chair, and her face 
was so white and scared that he was moved to pity. 

“ Oh, we are lost — surely we are lost 1 ” she mur- 
mured desperately. 

44 We?” 

44 You and I, Monseigneur.” 

Truly the girl was a little mad, he thought, as 
well as extraordinarily simple — yet she was most 
interesting — with that face and those sentiments. 
He wondered what his friends would think of her; 
formerly he had wished to keep her unspoilt — en 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


235 

tirely closed from the world — now he felt a certain 
desire to make a display of his discovery of the 
strange soul of Julie. 

His handsome, dominant face, so free from emo- 
tion, yet so capable of expressing all emotions that 
it was like the face of an actor who has reduced his 
features to the likeness of a mask, was turned, with 
a look of curiosity in the calm agate eyes, towards 
the pathetic little figure of Julie. 

“ Julie.” 

At the sound of his voice she started so that the 
coffee cup fell from her hand and was broken on the 
leg of the ormolu table. 

“ Never mind,” said M. de Morny, smiling at her 
stare of distress. “ I will give you another service 
— I never really cared for this.” 

The girl stooped and began foolishly picking up 
the fragments of china. 

” Can you give me a new soul, Monseigneur?” 
she trembled. 

She straightened herself and looked down at the 
pieces in her hand. 

“ Not I, Julie — nor anyone.” 

“ Cardinal Duplessis,” she murmured. 

“ Not he, Julie.” 

“ Oh, if one repents ,” she said passionately. 

“ Julie, you silly child, how can I prove to you 
that there is nothing for you to repent of ? You 
have done no wrong.” 

“ I am a sinner,” insisted Julie. 

“ There is nothing else in the world, my dear,” 
he assured her. 

She looked at him with mistrust. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


236 

“ At least there is God in Heaven,” she said des- 
perately. “ He knows what I mean.” 

M. de Morny was silent. 

“ I think I will go home ” added Julie piti- 

fully. 

“ Home ?” he frowned. 

“ To the old cur£ — he would understand — it was 
he who wished me to be a novice.” 

M. de Morny did not wish to lose Julie; her quiet 
and childlike charm had exactly suited his unemo- 
tional nature. 

With her he had no fears of rivals — and she was 
unique. 

Both these things flattered his pride — besides, he 
was as fond of her as he was capable of being of any- 
one save himself. 

He could recall no other such woman among his 
acquaintances, nor did he believe that he was ever 
likely to find one so charming, so simple — so suit- 
able. 

“ You must not go home,” he said decisively. 

“ Why, Monseigneur ?” she asked timidly. 

“ Because I want you to stay here, Julie,” he 
replied authoritatively. 

She regarded him gravely, without either the 
pleasure or the submission he had expected. 

“ I think I ought to go,” she said. 

The case was more serious than he had thought ; 
he roused his elegant leisure. 

“ You must learn that there are no saints in the 
world, Julie.” 

His dark eyes smiled. 

“ And I must show you,” he added. 


237 


THE SCARLET ROSE 

Her expression did not change. 

“You shall see Cardinal Duplessis, Julie.” 

She shrank from him and his suggestion. 

“ Oh, I should not dare ! I should not dare 1” 

“ He is not so terrible.” 

“ But I am not fit to appear before a man of God, 
Monseigneur.” 

M. de Morny laughed. 

“ Silly one,” he said, “ by this time next week 
you will have forgotten this foolishness.” 

He left early that afternoon, and his going was a 
relief to Julie. 

Immediately she was free she called Dorine and 
questioned her as to whether the Cardinal was soon 
preaching again. 

Yes, he was preaching that very day — at Saint 
Sulpice again. 

Julie longed to go, but found that strict orders 
had been left for the gay little chariot to take her 
nowhere but to the shops. 

For the first time since her coming to Paris she 
realised that she had sold her liberty. 

It was impossible for her to leave the house, even 
on foot, alone. 

She looked at the high walls of the exquisite 
garden — walls covered with roses, yes, but the walls 
of a prison, as Julie suddenly discovered. 

Sick with agitation she crept up to her lonely 
little bedchamber. 

Fear seized her again and a constant sickness 
shook her heart. 

She shivered into bed and the sheets felt icy about 
her hot limbs. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


238 

The calm cynical words of M. de Morny rang in 
her bewildered brain. 

“ There must be a God — there must be holiness,” 
she kept saying to herself. 

All her surroundings had now become intolerable, 
every beautiful trifle that she had innocently loved 
now seemed like a menace of eternal perdition. 

She burnt candles all that night, and could not 
sleep. 

With the morning came a present from M. de 
Morny — a basket of white jasmine and roses con- 
cealing a Sevres coffee service — powder blue, painted 
with scenes of ladies walking in a park with terraces 
and lofty trees. 

Julie looked at them listlessly, and listened with- 
out interest to the note that accompanied them and 
which Dorine read. 

M. de Morny was coming to supper, bringing with 
him friends — “ who would cure her of her sweet 
follies and her visions of saints.” 

Julie lay in bed till the afternoon; she could not 
eat, her lips and throat were dry, her lower limbs 
cold, every familiar object in the room wore a ghast- 
ly chill look of horror, there was nothing to which 
she could turn for comfort, nor could she explain 
to herself the dismal change which had befallen all 
her surroundings. 

She only knew that if she could get away and 
find once more the old fields and the old cure she 
might again know peace. 

But she had neither force nor spirit to con- 
template escaping from the silken bonds that 
held her in Paris; she merely lay and shivered, 


THE SCARLET ROSE 


239 

thinking of her life and of the words of Cardinal 
Duplessis. 

Dorine forced her to dress, attiring her in a 
saffron-coloured gown with panniers of lavender- 
coloured gauze, and rouging the face and lips that 
were so pitifully white. 

Julie sat inert till she heard M. de Morny ’s voice 
in the hall below, and then she stumbled down- 
stairs in a nameless panic, her frail hands clutching 
at the scarlet rose that hung among the furbelows 
on her panting heart. 

A party of men and women stood in the gold and 
rose entrance hall; foremost was M. de Morny 
wrapped in a voluminous and flowing dark 
mantle. 

Julie paused, further frightened by these stran- 
gers ; soft and good-humoured laughter arose at the 
sight of her scared, childish look. 

“ Is this the little saint ?” 

Julie saw her lover take off the cloak, and beheld 
before her the figure of Cardinal Duplessis as she 
had seen him in the pulpit at Saint Sulpice. 

“ Comedown, Julie,” smiled His Eminence/' and 
I will absolve you from your sins.” 

“ You are ” the words died on her quivering 

lips. 

il M. de Morny is Cardinal Duplessis,” smiled one 
of his companions: “ you know now what value is 
to be attached to his sermons, Mademoiselle.” 

Julie moved her head with a desperate look for 
succour. 

And saw none, saw herself closed in, surrounded 
by horror. 


240 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


“ Then there is no God/’ she said. 

She moved forward as if she was on the level and 
fell over the stairs and so at the Cardinal’s feet. 

When they lifted her up her mind was gone ; she 
could only mutter, in the dialect of her childhood, 
about visions of Saint Gabriel and the Virgin. 


X. — PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 

No. 329 . — A drinking goblet of rock crystal in the 
shape of a fish, mounted in silver-gilt. Floren- 
tine, seventeenth century. 

11 To-morrow,” said Petronilla. 

She had said the word so often; Astome both 
dreaded and loved to hear it on her lips, for it 
meant delay and also hope. 

To-night she seemed to discern a keener shade 
of disappointment on his face, for she paused at 
the turn of the stair and, looking back over her 
shoulder, said gently: “ To-night he needs me — 
he is not well — when he calls for me in the morning 
I must be there.” 

Astome watched her slender figure quietly 
ascend the wide stair with the worn gilt balusters 
one side and the other the bright frescoes of 
landscapes painted on the wall. 

She wore a white gown and shoes of rose- 
coloured velvet; in her hand was a little lamp 
with a floating wick which cast an amber light 
over her soft loveliness. 

Astome watched her pause on the first landing, 
gently unlatch the door of the Conte degli Adimari’s 
chamber, look in, ascertain that he slept, then 
241 16 


242 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

pass on to her own room, leaving the stairs in 
darkness. 

Then he returned to the library where he worked 
every day and all day with the Conte, who was 
compiling a history of the Adimari family. 

Their one recreation was chess — an hour after 
supper, while Petronilla sat at her tapestry frame. 

Astome looked at the board put carefully aside, 
with the pieces in place for the morrow’s completion 
of the game. 

He disliked chess — he disliked the long days 
of minute and uncongenial toil — he even disliked 
the beautiful old Florentine villa in which he had 
spent the last three years of his life — or would have 
disliked it if it had not been the background to 
Petronilla. 

Petronilla was the Contessa degli Adimari, the 
young wife of the old Conte — no more than twenty 
to his seventy — the old man had loved her gentle- 
ness, her studious mind, and she had been passive 
in the hands of ambitious parents. 

It could only be a few years, they said, and 
Petronilla would be free, a Contessa and rich. 

So the girl became the wife and assistant of 
the quiet old man, and helped him with the 
voluminous folio of the Degli Adimaris’ memoirs, 
copied coats of arms, and drew up pedigrees and 
wrote long pages in her fine handwriting, patiently 
and accurately, from the Conte’s dedication. 

She saw no one — the villa half-way up the 
Apennines was as quiet as the convent she had 
left when her father came to tell her of the marriage 
he had arranged. 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 243 

And she did not repine; as she had never had 
friends or pleasures she could not miss them, and 
she came to love the Villa with the frescoed rooms, 
the terraces, the gardens, and the peaceful, un- 
changeful life and the cultured, courteous com- 
panionship of the old nobleman. 

But after a year she began to lose her strength ; 
she could no longer do her task but painfully and 
slowly, even the evening walks with the Conte 
on the terraces fatigued her, once or twice she 
fainted over the great leather-bound volumes — 
and it became clear that another assistant would 
have to be found to compile the memoirs of the 
Degli Adimari. 

The Conte, with the unworldly simplicity of 
the recluse who has forgotten the ways of human 
nature and the strength of human passion, brought 
his young relative, Astome degli Adimari, a poor 
cadet of a branch line. 

He came for the sake of the home and possible 
advantage from a relation rich and kindly, and 
he stayed solely for the sake of Petronilla. 

Even when, through his mother’s family, he 
inherited considerable property that made him 
independent, he stayed because of Petronilla. 

Brought together daily, left much alone, of 
similar quiet tastes and warm dispositions, they 
learnt simply and naturally to love. 

The heart of Petronilla was unlocked, and she 
discovered many secrets therein. 

For one thing, that this life did not satisfy her 
after all — that she wanted a home, and that this 
was not it — for another, that to love was an 


244 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


imperative need, and that she belonged where she 
loved and not where the church had given its 
blessing. 

Yet gentleness, pity, and even affection for the 
old man who had always been kind to her stayed 
her action and kept her in her place. 

Many times she had promised Astome that 
she would abandon this unnatural life to go with 
him, yet when the moment came she had always 
hesitated. It seemed as if she lacked the power 
to break through the fine chains of custom that 
enmeshed them all. 

Always she had some gentle excuse — “ When 
we have finished this pedigree,” “ when this chapter 
is complete,” “ he is not well, when he is better ” — 
and though these excuses were trivial to the ears 
of his passion he could not but love her more for 
them. 

Finally he had prevailed so far that she had 
packed the belongings she would take with her 
and even written the letter to be left behind. 

His own arrangements had been complete so 
long that he wearied at them — the details of their 
flight, their journey, had all been planned — his 
house at Vallombrosa was ready to receive her — 
and even now Petronilla always said “ to-morrow.” 

Astome looked round the empty library, and 
a sense of dreariness entered his soul. 

Her “ to-morrow ” rang in his ears with a 
mournful sound — the hopes she held out to him 
glittered with the fatal colours' and ghostly, 
luminous light of the “ will-o'-wisp ” over deathly 
marshes. 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 245 

He wondered if they would ever be free to love 
each other, if she would ever be his in the pine 
woods and amid the shrines of Vallombrosa — where 
he had so often imagined her light figure moving 
among the cyclamen and anemones. 

She was not strong, and of late had failed in 
health, he thought. 

She was too frail, and given to fever in the 
afternoons, to faintings and pains in her side, a 
little cough shook her perpetually — it was nothing, 
they all said, she would be well with the first suns 
of summer, yet now, reflecting upon it, Astome 
felt uneasy. 

For the first time he wondered if she would 
ever be well. 

Moodily he picked up the rock crystal goblet 
by the chess-board, in which the Conte always 
took his evening drink of spiced Sicilian wine. 

Astome took up the goblet and moodily looked 
at it — it was as tiresomely familiar as the room, 
the papers, the Conte’s seat and his own, ever in 
the same place. 

Yet in the depths of his heart he was conscious 
that these objects caused him a pang — a sense 
that if he lost them he would be sorry. 

Custom had put round his heart its dreadful 
chains of tenderness — he would be sorry to part 
even with these things associated with one whom 
he hated. 

Hated — no, he could not say he hated the gentle, 
courteous husband of Petronilla. 

He had even shared her half-expressed remorse 
at their joint flight. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


246 

Though that, he felt, was folly. 

The Conte wanted no more of them, had no 
right to more of them. 

Too long he had sapped their youth, their 
strength, taking their devotion, their tenderness, 
their labour, their attention as a matter of course — 
too long, like an overwhelming shadow, he had 
stood between them and all life owed them. 

Astome felt it was wrong to sacrifice the golden 
days to this old man. 

He would be as happy with his ancient servants, 
who understood his ways and his needs; he did 
not need youth, beauty, and strength to wait 
upon his simple needs. 

Astome put down the goblet. 

How often he had seen it in Petronilla’s hands — 
every evening at the same hour she would bring 
it in, full of the sweet drink, and place it by the 
Conte’s side. 

Astome wondered if he would miss this service 
— why should he ? — a servant could perform the 
office as well. 

“ To-morrow — to-morrow.” 

The words again came into his head; he seated 
himself in the Conte’s chair, before the lamp, 
which was beginning to flicker for lack of trimming 
— would there ever be a to-morrow for him and 
Petronilla ? 

His love for her was as free of passion as his 
feeling for the Conte was free of hate — an immense 
tenderness, as strong, and rarer than passion, was 
the emotion that bound him to Petronilla. 

He was, himself, surprised at this, for she was 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 247 

his first desire ; yet his senses were stirred dreamily, 
and there was no desperate ardour to claim her 
for his, mingled with his impatience to take her 
away from the Villa degli Adimari into freedom. 

The few kisses he had had of her he remembered 
more as balm than fire. 

His feeling was softer yet stronger than passion — 
an immense yearning shook him when he thought 
of Petronilla, and thinking of her, sitting in the 
Conte’s chair and staring at the waning lamp, 
somehow he thought of death. 

His eye travelled to the pile of manuscripts, 
all traced with the names of people long dead. 

Death had never touched those he cared for, 
and he had the courage of security. 

Petronilla degli Adimari would one day be the 
name of a dead woman. 

He was angry with himself for the thought. 

But the thought had come and would remain: 
Petronilla would one day be the name of a dead 
woman. 

Petronilla of the laurel trees he called her, 
from the little grove of laurels that was her favourite 
walk, and where they would sit and talk or read in 
the long hours of the afternoon, when the Conte 
slept behind the green lattices. 

He thought of her always with this background 
of the sharp-pointed leaves and round berries 
of the laurel, between them the fine mosaic of 
the sky, pale azure in spring, purple in summer 
and autumn, and in the winter obscured with 
clouds. 

He stared at the goblet from which the old man 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


248 

drank every night, and which had been touched 
so often by Petronilla’s fragile hands. 

The lamp flickered and went out for lack of 
oil; a pale blur of blue moonlight fell through 
the high latticed window. 

Astome stood motionless, with the goblet in 
his hand; never before had he been so aware of 
the utter silence of the house. 

He thought of Petronilla, sleeping, white in the 
white linen, and of the old Conte in his magnificent 
chamber, and he wondered what dreams visited 
either of them in their repose. . . . 

The next day Petronilla came to him on the 
terrace; they seldom were free in the morning, 
but to-day, Petronilla said, the Conte was not 
well enough to work. They turned their steps 
towards the laurel trees. 

“ To-day is your to-morrow, Petronilla, ” said 
Astome. 

11 Oh, he is sick,” she answered. 

A dreariness that was beyond disappointment 
fell on the heart and spirit of Astome. 

In silence they descended the steps from the 
terrace and crossed the garden. 

The pearl-pink and white flowers of San Guiseppe 
were almost out on their grey-leaved bushes, and 
those huge, scentless roses called roses of Nero. 

In the borders pinks bloomed, and the crimson 
camellia heads were unfolding. 

They came out on to the open hillside, which 
was crowned by the laurel trees. 

Under their feet were cyclamen and violets, 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 249 

purple and white; before their eyes an almond 
and peach orchard in a dip of the hill; the boughs 
could not be seen for the blossom. 

They walked in silence to the laurel trees, and 
sat down side by side on the short, dry grass. 

The sunlight fell softly through the flickering 
leaves; Petronilla clasped her hands round her 
raised knees; she wore a white gown figured with 
little clusters of pink flowers and girdled high under 
her bosom; her hair, which was neither dark nor 
fair, but warm and neutral in colouring, was drawn 
away from her face and gathered by coral-headed 
pins into a coil at the nape of her neck. 

She looked at Astome with brown eyes, appealing 
and sad ; she held herself languidly, and her 
breathing was deep and noticeable. 

11 Petronilla,” said Astome, lt we waste our 
lives — do you realise how we waste our lives ?” 

She looked away, hesitant. 

1 When are you going to end it ?” insisted the 
young man. “ It is in your hands, beloved.” 

“ Oh no,” she answered, “ it is not in my hands, 
Astome. I cannot decide.” 

“ I will decide,” said Astome, but without 
hope in his voice or look. “ The old man does not 
need us, would not miss us. Do you not see that 
you are sacrificing yourself to a phantasy ?” 

“ You think that he would not miss us ?” asked 
Petronilla slowly. 

“ Why should he ? Anyone could be paid 
to do what we do — the writing, the research, the 
attendance. He lives in the past, the old man — 


2 50 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

he does not notice who is about him — after a 
day’s grief he would not miss either of us.” 

Petronilla slowly shook her head. 

“ I do not think that you are right,” she said. 
“ Nay, I know that you are not right. He loves 
us both.” 

“ But what is that love to ours ?” 

“ It is a thing I cannot hurt — I cannot,” she 
answered; she looked down at her clasped 
hands. 

A great bitterness filled the sore heart of Astome. 

“ Do you mean,” he asked, “ that I am to wait 
this old man’s death ?” 

Petronilla shivered. 

“ Give me a little longer— give me time,” she 
pleaded, and lifted eyes that were touched by 
tears. 

“ I have already given you so long, Petronilla. 
What is your love for me worth if you put this 
sentiment before it ?” 

“You know I love you, dear, my dear 1” 

His dark face did not lighten of its gloom. 

“ I have told you I love you,” said Petronilla 
simply. “ I do love you — I always shall.” 

He warmed at her words. 

“ Then come away with me — let us begin this 
new life together — we are stifled here by the dusty 
atmosphere of the past; the infirmities of old age, 
always before us, overwhelm us — we do not live — 
this place is dead, peopled with ghosts 1” 

“ The villa is melancholy, yes,” said Petronilla, 
“ but I am fond of it — fond of the old man — I 
hardly can imagine any other existence.” 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 251 

“ This life is sapping your strength, your 
courage/ 1 cried Astome. “ I must save you " 

“ Hush !" She held out her hands, and the 
sleepy sunshine fell across them. 

Here, in the Villa degli Adimari, one is always 
hushed/' said Astome. 

It is for such a little while/' answered Petronilla 
humbly. 

“ How long, how long ?" 

She drew a little closer. 

“ Oh, love, be not so impatient !” 

Her little hands clung to his dark coat. 

“ Kiss me," she whispered. 

But Astome was bitter enough to be brutal. 

“ If you love the old man, why do you deceive 
him?" 

“ He knows we love each other," whispered 
Petronilla, hanging her head. 

“ He thinks we are fond of each other," smiled 
Astome. “ He does not know the truth." 

“ Why should he ? It would break his heart — 
and we can wait, we are so young." 

" But our love and all that it is built on is so 
unstable, Petronilla — it is offered to us now, let 
us take it — oh, beloved, let us take it while we 
can !" 

Petronilla sighed. 

The warm wind ruffled her soft hair and fluttered 
the edges of her draperies, where they touched 
the grass. 

Astome, looking at her, was filled with helpless 
rage and helpless desire. 

She seemed as unattainable as if she had never 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


252 

confessed her love for him, never promised to go 
with him to his house by the sea and be his for 
ever more. And what stood between them was 
an old, sickly student, who cared for nothing 
but his books and his papers, and who was in- 
capable of noticing what took place about him. 

This seemed to Astome ridiculous and yet 
unsurmountable ; he did not think that he would 
ever persuade Petronilla to leave the Conte. 

And over him also came the sense of the melan- 
choly, the remoteness, the silence of these long 
spring days and of the villa where so many had 
lived and died and been forgotten. 

The futility of love and life seemed overwhelm- 
ing; he felt like a man for whom everything was 
over. 

Petronilla looked at him, and the tears over- 
brimmed her eyes. 

“ I make you sad,” she said. “ You should 
never have come here.” 

She rose and leant against one of the slender 
laurel trees. 

“ You should never have loved me,” she added. 

“ I wish I had not,” he replied, “ for I think 
you mean to break my heart.” 

“ We are together,” she answered pitifully; 
“ cannot you be happy this way ?” 

“ Not happy.” 

“ Not content ?” 

“Nor content.” 

She looked at him very wistfully, and tightly 
clasped her thin little hands. 

“ I suppose we are different. I can be happy — 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 253 

just knowing that you are there; that you love 
me, that we shall never, never part, and that 
some day we shall be free to love each other. 
Knowing that, and that the Conte is happy, I 
can be happy also, Astome.” 

“ You live in dreams,” said Astome gloomily. 

“ Dreams ? I wonder. Certainly I could be 
content, dreaming of you.” 

He was moved to a great tenderness towards 
her, but he was still bitter, still angry, and would 
speak no word of softness. 

She spoke again, still pleading with him. 

“ I wish you could be pleased with me ” 

“ Pleased ?” he rose and stood before her. “ I 
love you, I want you.” 

Petronilla shrank, overwhelmed by the nearness 
of his presence. 

“ I know,” she said feebly. “ I know — indeed, 
Astome, but ” 

She was silent suddenly, and he almost thought 
that he had won her; he wished he could put her 
upon his horse before him, like the knights in the 
foolish tales of old, and ride away with her now. 

He thought that she would not protest if once 
he could hold her to him and take her swiftly 
away from this melancholy villa and this old man 
with his books about the dead. 

But even while he thought this, a thin, sweet 
voice came through the laurel trees. 

“ Petronilla ! Petronilla !” 

Astome's moment was over; the light sank in 
the eager eyes of the Contessa. 

“ Petronilla !” 


2 54 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

Gentle but insistent rose the voice of the old 
man; they saw him below them, walking along 
the marble paths of the garden. 

Petronilla turned from her lover and went down 
the slope to the Conte. 

Astome watched her offer her frail arm to support 
his frail weight, and the slow progress of the two 
towards the villa. 

He could not, at once, follow them. 

His gaze dwelt on her slender figure, her dear 
head, the whole lovable person of her — so passion- 
ately adored even to the least turn of the gown 
that fluttered round her ankles. 

She was his — he knew he held the soul of 
Petronilla — and yet he was debarred from her by 
the shadowy figure of the gentle old man to whom 
she was nothing but nurse and servant. 

Soon, sitting under the laurel trees, he became 
aware of the loneliness. 

He could not any longer stay there in the soft, 
sleepy sunshine and moving shadow, looking on 
the blossom orchard, the low garden which the 
sun filled as wine a cup, and the straight, faded 
pink front of the villa. 

He knew that the Conte would be waiting for 
him in the old library with the books and parch- 
ments ready before him — waiting in his courteous 
fashion until it pleased his young kinsman to 
come to him. 

Astome almost hated him for this indulgence; 
it galled him that the old man was so kind, so 
unassuming, so considerate, so unsuspicious. 
Perhaps if he had been harsher, sterner, Petronilla 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 255 

would not have felt the burden of him on her 
gentle soul. 

If he had been a tyrant, Astome would have 
felt justified in his insistence, which he now 
employed with a dull feeling of guilt. 

For deeply as he hid it in his heart, he had the 
feeling that the Conte did love, and could miss, 
them both. 

It was not a feeling that he would have listened 
to, in his selfish longing for Petronilla ; but it was 
there, and further clouded his melancholy with 
remorse and distress. 

Slowly he returned to the villa, impatient with 
his peaceful, melancholy surroundings, impatient 
with love, with life, with Petronilla. 

He found the lady and her husband in the 
library. 

The Conte sat before the open doors of his 
muniment bureau; in his hand was a sheaf of 
stained and discoloured parchment. 

A dark brown cloak was about his shoulders as 
if he was chilly, even on this soft day; a black 
silk cap covered his elegant head, and his aquiline 
face, drawn, sallow, and heavy, was slightly 
flushed with pleasure as he read aloud an ancient 
footnote to an old chronicle of the degli Adimari, 
which confirmed some surmise of his own. 

He looked up at the entrance of his young 
kinsman. Astome tried not to see his obvious 
pleasure and friendly smile. 

Petronilla sat at the great dark desk under the 
latticed window; the sunlight, filtering through 
the squares of greenish glass, fell in a subdued, 


256 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

almost a ghostly light on her bent fair head and 
thin figure. 

She was mending a quill, and a sheet of paper 
lay before her on the desk. 

“ Contessa,” said Astome, and waited for her 
to give him the place. 

Petronilla rose silently and moved to the other 
end of the room. 

“ Let her stay,” said the Conte. “ Perhaps 
you,” he added wistfully, ” are tired of this dull, 
close nook — you have scarcely left the desk these 
last weeks ” 

Astome did not give the warm assurances he 
knew the old man looked for. 

” It is my work,” he answered, and sat down 
and took up the half-mended quill. 

“ But if you would rather be free this morning,” 
began the Conte, troubled. 

” Nay,” said Astome with an effort, ” let us 
begin, signor.” He took up the sheets that he 
had written yesterday and arranged them in order. 

His fingers moved mechanically through this 
task, and his glance was sadly on Petronilla. 

She sat beyond her husband with the large 
tapestry frame behind her. The tapestry that hung 
on it was worked with a forest scene in dull colours ; 
half-way down the canvas the stitching ended. 
Astome remembered that it had ended there for 
some time; it was many days since Petronilla 
had cared to touch the wools. 

She usually sat, as she sat now, in the high- 
backed, dark-cushioned chair, with her head 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 257 

leaning listlessly to one side and her hands idle in 
her lap. 

The Conte smoothed out his documents on a 
corner of the desk, and began dictating the 
fourteenth chapter of his history of the Degli 
Adimari. It was an account of a tournament 
held in the villa two hundred years before. 

Astome’s pen took down the description of 
knights and their armour, the jousts, the mock 
battles with sweets and flowers, the feasts, the 
tents in the gardens now so solitary, the dances 
in the halls now so silent, the pomp and movement 
where all was now so quiet. 

And all the while he was thinking of Petronilla, 
and wondering if this obligation of disguise would 
be ever lifted from her, and if he would ever call 
her his own in his own house, ever become free 
from the overwhelming atmosphere of the villa 
and the Conte’s presence. 

And like a tiny hammer in his brain a little 
pulse seemed to be beating — “ Never — never.” 

Now and then he looked at Petronilla. 

She never moved, and seemed so withdrawn 
from what was passing as to appear lifeless. 

Her head leant heavily into the hollow of her 
slender shoulder, and her hands were so loosely 
interlocked that the fingers fell apart. 

In the shadow that encompassed her, her face 
seemed as colourless as her dress. 

Her hair was one with the darkness behind her; 
she looked half unreal, a thing withdrawn into 
nebulous shadows. 


17 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


258 

And in Astome’s heart and brain beat the little 
pulse — “ Never — never/ ’ 

So he continued to write in the closed room, 
with the dulled sunlight falling over his papers 
and the slow, musical voice of the old man in his 
ears, and monotony, and discontent, and longing, 
over him like a cloak of pain. 

Wearily the hours went by, unannounced by any 
clock, and marked only by the passage of the sun 
across the chamber. 

Steadily went Astome’s hand across the paper, 
and the old man’s voice droned on with the gorgeous 
details of the tournament; all the now obscure 
items of the gaieties of old times. 

Presently he stopped writing. 

“ The Contessa ” he said. 

The Conte stared. 

“ Eh ?” he said, confused by being stopped in 
his reading. 

“ The Contessa looks ill.” 

The other turned in his chair, hardly realising 
what had been said. 

Astome rose. 

“ She is asleep or ” 

“ Petronilla !” cried the old man, in sudden, 
sharp alarm. 

They went over to her. 

“ She is asleep,” said the Conte. 

“ Fainted,” said Astome. 

He laid his hand on the low rise of her breast 
and felt beneath it the flutter of her heart. 

“Oh, gentle Heaven !” cried the old man 
piteously. 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 259 

“ She lives/’ said Astome. 

“ Lives ? How could it be otherwise ?” He 
stared in a bewilderment of anguish. “ She is 
young and well.” 

“ Not so well, signor. Help me take her 
upstairs.” 

Together, they, the old man and the young, 
carried the light weight of Petronilla up to her 
chamber, there the sun was falling unstained and 
clear through an open window. 

It lay over the frail figure of Petronilla when 
they placed her on the bed, showed the almost 
transparent delicacy of her features, the fineness 
of her fallen hands, and sparkled in the light 
threads of the purple and gold coverlet. 

Lucrezia, the waiting woman, as old and gentle 
and quiet as her master, came hastening with silent 
anxiety. 

The signora had fainted, she said — it was nothing, 
of late the signora had not been strong; she had 
fainted once before while she was having her gown 
fastened, but had forbidden it to be mentioned. 

The Conte stood silent, leaning forward a little 
and looking down at his wife as if he was trying 
to read something in her unconscious face. 

And Astome looked at him and saw his love, 
plainly now, beyond all denial. 

Astome knew that he loved Petronilla— she was 
more to him than nurse or servant. 

Perhaps he loved her as much as Astome — 
that was a strange thought for his lover’s jealousy. 

The old man never looked at the young man 
who was so keenly studying him. 


260 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

With his hands clasped gently on his heart, he 
stared at Petronilla. 

Lucrezia had all her essences ready, a little 
serving-maid hurried with a cordial ; the men 
were put aside. 

Astome led the Conte from the chamber. 

“ We must finish the chapter, signor,” he 
said. 

A gleam of brightness lightened the amazed 
sorrow of the old man’s face. 

“ Yes, yes, the chapter,” he answered. “ 111, 
is she ill ?” he added, in a confused fashion. 
“ But she is young and well — we never thought 
of her as ill, did we, Astome ? A little cough ” 

“ It is nothing,” said Astome hastily. 

The Conte sent one of the men riding into 
Florence for a doctor, and the two returned to 
their work in the library. 

That day, as every other day, the dictation 
went on, the sheets were covered by Astome’s 
neat handwriting, the old man read aloud from 
his parchments. 

“ I wonder if I shall live to finish this book,” 
he said wistfully, as he lovingly put aside the 
day’s work. 

“ I wonder if he cares more for the book or for 
Petronilla,” thought Astome, half bitterly, half 
with a strange tenderness. 

She came down as usual that evening. The 
doctor had named no definite disease— she was 
weak, she must be careful, she needed the sun, 
that was all. 

She brought her husband his spiced drink, and 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 26 


he, happy to see her moving about again, kissed 
the hands that served him. 

Astome brought out the chess-board, and they 
finished the game of yesterday, the Conte pleased 
and content, the grave young man looking across 
the pieces at the grave girl in the high, deep- 
cushioned chair. He seemed so fatally and com- 
pletely separated from her, first by the gentle 
Conte and then by something that was not gentle, 
but very terrible. 

He did not now think — “ When will she come 
with me ? ,; but “ When will she be well ?” And 
again the little pulses in his brain seemed to beat 
out the word “ Never — never.” 

That night, after she had taken the old man 
up to his rooms, she came back into the library, 
where Astome still sat over the chess-board, 
near the oil lamp. 

He could not speak to her. 

“ Astome,” she laid her hand on his bent 
shoulders, “ are you angry with me?” 

He shook his head ; he was near tears. 

“Oh, my dear,” said Petronilla, “ I cannot 
help it, I am ill — I did not want you to know — 
but — it is so clear.” 

He could not look up. 

“ To-morrow I will talk to you,” she added in 
an exhausted voice. 

“ To-morrow,” said Astome, “ always to- 
morrow !” 

He rose, pushing over the chess-board and scatter- 
ing the pieces on the floor between them. 

“ Come with me now, Petronilla — all is ready, 


262 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


there is a moon ” — he hardly knew what he was 
saying. “ I will make you well, I will love you 
so that you cannot die !” 

She moved away from him, smiling and holding 
her hand to her throat. 

“ There is the old man — and his book — we — 
could not — do it,” she whispered; she shook her 
head, and her eyebrows lifted mechanically while 
her lips quivered. “ It is — not for us — it is hard 
to realise that, is it not, but it is not for us — not 
for us ” 

They looked at each other, frightened; a be- 
wilderment was on them and a terror. 

The darkness, the gloom and the silence of the 
house were about them like a curse. 

She wore a dark gown, and her face showed 
through the shadows like a fair flower above black 
water. 

Their hands touched and fell apart again. 

“ This place is like a tomb,” stammered the 
young man. 

“Yet you will stay,” whispered Petronilla. 

“You know you have me ” 

“ I mean afterwards.” 

“ Petronilla, Petronilla ” 

“ Hush, hush, we must not wake him ” 

“ I would not care. I could go to him now and 
tell him the truth, and take you away from him 
under his eyes.” 

“ If you did I should no longer love you,” she 
said; “ but you will not, I know you too well.” 

“ What is he to me ? I do not wish ever to talk 
of him,” he cried in desperation. 


PETRONILLA OF THE LAUREL TREES 263 

She moved still further away, till her back was 
against the wall. 

“We must talk of him, he is there.” 

She paused a moment and seemed about to 
weep, then spoke again, calmly. 

“ And if there is only one of us left, Astome, 
you must stay with him — and finish the book ” 

He tried to touch her, but she was swiftly gone. 

“ If she dies, I shall go mad,” he said. “ If 
she dies I shall not be able to endure this villa 
or the old man a single day.” 

* * * * * 

In the vintage time, the first sunny days of 
October, they lost Petronilla. 

She died in her sleep ; perhaps of a broken heart 
and thwarted love. She never complained through 
all that long summer, when she lay on her couch 
with the two men in the room or on the terrace. 
She hardly ever saw her lover alone; they were 
completely separated. 

Only, before she composed herself for that last 
sleep, she drew her lover’s hand down to her 
lips and said: “ Remember — you stay to comfort 
him.” 

She was buried under the marble floor of the 
chapel attached to the villa; the flowers were all 
over, but Astome laid sprigs of laurel above her 
simple “ Hie facet Petronilla degli Adimari.” 

On the evening of the funeral, Astome came into 
the library. 

The old man was sitting alone beside the muni- 
ment chest. He looked timidly up at Astome. 

“You will stay ?” 


264 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

The young man trimmed the lamp with steady 
fingers. 

“ You will help me with the rest of my days — 
the waiting?” continued the Conte. “ I would — 
like,” he added in broken tones, “ to finish the 
book.” 

“ Yes,” said Astome, “ we must finish the book.” 

The old eyes, so pitifully swollen by tears, 
brightened with gratitude. 

“ But to-night it is too late for work,” added 
Astome, and he took down the chess-board and 
the men in their familiar inlaid box. 

“ You loved her too,” said the old man, “ and 
she was very fond of you — she would like you to 
stay. I should be very lonely if you went.” 

“ I shall not go,” said Astome, setting the 
pieces. “ I shall try and do for you what she did, 
Conte.” 

When he looked up from the chess-board to 
the empty chair in the corner, in front of the un- 
finished tapestry, he saw the face of the dead 
woman smiling between the fading laurel leaves. 


XI.— CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


No. 328 . — The bodice of a lady } s dress , white brocade 
with silver thread-needle run lace collar. English 
middle eighteenth century. Much faded. 

The name attracted him and then the woman; 
he first saw her under no circumstances of romance. 
She was a mantua-maker of the poorer sort, and 
he saw her standing at attention with a breadth 
of grey taffeta in her hands, scissors at her waist, 
and her eyes anxiously on her work. 

She was then part of the background of a picture 
of which Sybilla Dering was the light and centre. 
He was betrothed to Sybilla, and their wedding 
was but a few weeks away. It was, therefore, 
doubly strange that he should have looked not 
at her, radiant before the mirror in her pink silk, 
which she was displaying for his admiration, but 
at the little figure of the sempstress, who was not 
looking at him at all, but frowning at her handi- 
work, the pink dress. 

He had praised Sybilla and praised the gown; 
his usual lover-like courtesy had not changed; 
he spoke no word to the mantua-maker, and there 
was no glance between them — but this, the first 
265 


266 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

time that he had seen her, was the beginning of 
it all. 

He knew that she was French; her name — 
Camille Rochfort — had been mentioned in his 
presence some days before he had first beheld 
her. It had lingered in his memory — Camille 
Rochfort — and now the image of the woman 
lingered in his heart. 

Yet he had always considered himself in love 
with Sybilla, and very fortunate in obtaining her 
hand. 

She was fair, pleasant, fond, his equal in means 
and position; he had chosen her himself from 
among all the women of his acquaintance. 

Of Camille Rochfort he knew nothing. 

And yet 

He began to wonder at himself — at love. 

There were frequent and innocent opportunities 
of seeing the mantua-maker. 

She was with Sybilla every day, preparing the 
bride’s clothes; Sybilla liked to display these 
before her lover, and Anthony Redesdale drifted 
into the subtle deception of declaring he liked to 
see her in them because he knew that this meant 
his admittance to the little work-room where 
Camille Rochfort worked. 

Sometimes Sybilla 's mother was present, some- 
times a friend — never, for a moment, was he alone 
with the sempstress, whom everyone pleasantly 
ignored, and who was never spoken to save about 
some detail of her work. 

She was perfectly self-contained, and appeared 
to notice them as little as they noticed her, nor 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


267 

did she give, by as much as a flicker of her lids, 
any cognisance that she was aware of Anthony's 
furtive regard. 

When he had seen her two or three times he 
knew every detail of her appearance by heart; 
when the time grew so near his wedding that she 
was at work on Sybilla's bridal gown, he knew 
himself fatally in love with her, knew that he was 
being fast hurried past prudence and reason. 

So far his fortunes had been safe, his life easy; 
his people were prosperous country gentry, who 
had never lacked money or standing. 

He himself was a lawyer, and had done well in 
his profession; he had comfortable rooms in the 
Temple, and had already taken and furnished a 
house at Highgate for Sybilla. 

A few weeks ago he had foreseen no cloud that 
could possibly blot the peaceful horizon of his days. 

Now there was — Camille Rochfort. 

His life had become a distress and a problem; 
the day he had seen her working at the white 
bodice of his betrothed's wedding-gown, he had 
been shocked into seeing how terrible was the 
distress, how acute the problem. 

As he walked home from the house in Queen's 
Street, he beheld her image as clearly as if she 
walked beside him. 

The short features, the slanting eyes, the heavy 
brows, the curved lips, the olive-gold complexion, 
and the black ringlets free from powder, the tall 
figure that yet gave an impression of slightness 
and smallness, the faded gown, the worn apron, 
the rubbed shoes — the hand worn with sewing. 


268 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

It was autumn, and the dusk was falling; he 
knew she did not work in Queen’s Street after the 
lamps were lit. 

Almost unconsciously his footsteps faltered, 
then stopped; he lingered under the portico of 
Wilde House, at the corner of Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields. 

“ What harm if I meet her by chance, accost 
her and walk with her a little way — for once? — I 
shall so soon not see her ever again.” 

He was already so much in love that he could 
not imagine what life would be like without seeing 
Camille Rochfort — and, as he formulated this 
thought — “ I shall soon never see her again ” — he 
was startled by the curious pain of it — it did 
not seem possible that there could be so much 
anguish attached to so little a thing, for he per- 
sisted in thinking of the episode as only a little 
thing. 

Why, he had not even spoken to her. 

She came out of the gathering mists and shadows 
and stood at his elbow, peering up at him out of 
the gloom of the arcade. 

“ It is — ah, yes, it is Monsieur Redesdale — 
pardon me, Monsieur, but I did not know ” 

He stared at her, slowly lifting his beaver. 

She wore a dark cloak and cardinal, and he 
could not see any of her personality at all, only 
a slender woman whom he knew was Camille 
Rochfort, the sempstress. 

“ I do not know why I spoke,” she added. 
‘ I was a little surprised at seeing Monsieur here — 
Monsieur will forgive ?” 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 269 

She turned on her way, and he fell into step 
beside her. 

He did not know what to say, and so compli- 
mented her upon her English, which was, indeed, 
clear and fluent. 

“ In the shop where I worked in Paris,” she 
answered, “ I was the one to speak to the English 
ladies — and I have been here now — two, nay, 
but nearly three years.” 

” Why did you come to London ?” asked 
Anthony bluntly. 

“ Why does Monsieur ask questions ?” she replied 
very deliberately, and he felt his blood tingle; he 
had spoken to her but a few minutes, and was 
already on the verge of danger. 

He was silent. 

They were crossing the open fields; the sky was 
grey and heavy above them and the wind blew 
in their faces; they had to keep their heads bent, 
and his greatcoat and her thin cloak were blown 
together behind them. 

The stormy cheerlessness of the weather served 
to deepen the extraordinary tenderness Anthony 
felt for the woman walking beside him. 

He thought of the many evenings that she had 
come home like this, alone, and his heart con- 
tracted with a yearning anguish to be with her 
always, and so, because he knew that he was 
prepared to be foolish beyond measure, he held 
his peace. 

“ Perhaps Monsieur is interested?” said Camille 
Rochfort. 

He could not define her manner. It was not 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


270 

demure or coquettish, although the words sounded 
so, but rather frank, and touched, perhaps, with 
wildness. 

“ Yes,” he said. 

“ Ah — I have observed Monsieur looking.” 

He was surprised and vexed — she had seemed so 
unconscious. 

“ Monsieur did not know ?” 

“ What, Mademoiselle ?” 

“ That I had observed him looking ?” 

“ No,” said Anthony foolishly. 

“ Why should Monsieur look at me instead of 
at his beautiful betrothed ?” 

And now the note of wildness was unmistakable. 

“ I am no longer pretty — I am twenty-eight,” 
she added. “ I have had a hard life — so hard — 
such work !” 

He caught at that. 

“ I wanted to know about that — your work — 
and how you live — alone ?” 

She was silent; he could see nothing of her but 
the slender figure struggling against the bitter 
wind; she had a muff of dark velvet which she 
held up to shield her face. 

“ I live with my brother,” she said suddenly; 
“ he is an engraver. We were told there would 
be more work in England. But it was not so.” 

“ I might assist you there,” answered Anthony 
eagerly, thinking of all the influential and wealthy 
people whom he knew. 

“No one can assist, Monsieur, my brother is 
crippled.” 

“ Crippled ” 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


271 


“ He was hurt by a coach — in the street — his 
hip — he has to lie on his back, Monsieur. Always. 
And one cannot hold the burin and the needle 
on one’s back. At least — not to engrave well 
enough.” 

He was profoundly moved, and yet further 
drawn towards her by this commonplace tragedy. 

” And you work for him ?” 

“ Monsieur, he has worked for me — always — 

only since he was ill ” She paused, and then 

added reluctantly: “ My work has had to do for 
both.” 

They had now crossed the fields and entered 
upon the dark, narrow streets at the back of 
Holborn. 

They had to walk cautiously over the cobbles 
and gutters, sparely lit by scattered oil lamps, and 
the wind creeping between the high houses and 
down the close alley whipped and stung. 

“ They — the Derings — pay well ?” stammered 
Anthony suddenly. 

“ Well ?” He heard her catch back a laugh. 
“ People do not employ the little mantua-maker 
if they pay well, Monsieur. I get the recommenda- 
tion from one lady to another because I am cheap — 
very cheap.” 

“ They pay — enough ?” 

She quietly named a sum that made him wince. 

“ And then there are the times when there is 
no work,” she added, graver. 

" And then ?” 

“ One has saved.” 

He was ashamed and angry ; he had never thought 


272 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

of her in connection with actual poverty. He was 
vexed with Sybilla, whose image seemed suddenly 
to lose half its prettiness and charm; he had 
always thought of her as so gentle and kind — 
and she gave this woman what was not enough 
to live on in decency. 

“ Mistress Dering is careless ” he began. 

“ Not about money/’ said Camille quietly. 
“ She is prudent — she made me take half what I 
wished for, because she knew I needed the work. 
It is always so. She will make Monsieur an 
admirable wife.” 

“ I will speak to her.” 

“ About me ?” 

He saw his own great folly, and was silent. 

“ It would not be successful,” added Camille; 
“ but if Monsieur wishes to do a kindness he will 
ask his wife to employ me in the future.” 

She stopped abruptly before the mean door of a 
squalid dwelling. 

“ Good-bye, Monsieur.” 

She held out her hand, bare and red with the 
cold. 

He snatched off his glove to clasp the stiff fingers 
in his. 

She looked at him from the shade of the cardinal, 
which the wind had blown a little back on her 
tumbled hair; her face was pale, a little pinched, 
the northern wind had sharpened her contours 
and driven the rose-gold tints from her complexion. 

“ Monsieur’s curiosity is satisfied ?” she asked, 
with a little smile. 

Seeing her there, chilled and lonely, against 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


273 

the common lintel of the poor house, the truth 
in him put aside fear and convention, and spoke 
out. 

“ No, I am not satisfied. I want to see more 
of you — to know you.” 

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. 

“It is not very pleasant to walk home alone 
after dark,” she said. ” Monsieur, if he will, 
may accompany me home from Queen’s Street — 
sometimes.” 

He did not loosen her hand. 

“ But now ?” 

She was keenly scrutinising his dark earnest 
face. 

“ Now — good-bye, Monsieur,” she said firmly. 

She drew away her hand, warmed by his clasp, 
entered the house and closed the door. 

It was with Anthony Redesdale as with some 
idle swimmer, allowing himself to drift along the 
current of a river, slowly, almost unconsciously, 
then suddenly being swept over a rapid and 
borne headlong and powerless to an unknown 
destination. 

After he had spoken to Camille Rochfort, her 
power over him was complete. 

Every other person in the world, including 
Sybilla, became to him shadowy. 

He wondered that this absorption and abstraction 
did not show, that he was still able to conduct his 
daily life, and that no one noticed how changed 
he was. 

For him the world was utterly different — some- 
times he could have shouted aloud for joy of this, 

18 


274 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

sometimes he had moments of calm when he said 
to himself roughly: “You are a fool; you will 
ruin yourself.” 

He tried to reason out the situation; he would 
spend the night walking up and down his chamber, 
thinking, planning, wondering. 

What was he going to do ? How solve his 
extraordinary problem ? 

He asked himself these questions, but his 
interest in them and in their solution was half- 
hearted. He could not think of the future, only of 
Camille Rochfort and the joy of love. 

And somehow, deep in his heart, was a conviction, 
founded on nothing but the instinctive strength 
and hopefulness of passion, that all would be right 
with them some day. 

A deep and wonderful excitement filled his days ; 
Camille Rochfort had recreated the world for him. 

Meanwhile the sempstress went every day to 
Queen's Street, and stitched at Sybilla Dering's 
wedding-gown. 

Since that first meeting he had walked home 
with her every day. 

When his leisure permitted he would spend 
the afternoon in the Derings’ house watching, 
when able, the mantua-maker sewing Sybilla 's 
clothes — always — nothing was allowed to interfere 
with this — he would be waiting at the corner of 
Wilde House to walk home with Camille. 

She always dismissed him on the threshold of 
her house, and no word of love had been spoken 
between them. 

Yet it seemed to Anthony as a thing understood, 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


275 

accepted, and only for a short while postponed, 
this love. 

There was, he thought, no need of words; he 
did not even wish to hasten any climax or con- 
summation, so wonderful was his present joy. 

She neither rebuked nor encouraged his 
attentions; she conversed with him naturally, 
sometimes a little bitterly; she made not the least 
reference to what the future could hold for either, 
and in the household of the Derings she was dumb, 
and of so perfect a discretion that she did not 
appear to know if he was in the room or not. 

The wedding was a month off. 

Even Anthony, through the infatuation that 
drugged him, realised that this could not go on; 
he must break with Sybilla — or with Camille. 

The last was unthinkable. 

And at the first, when squarely faced, he 
shuddered, with the shudder of one drawing back 
from a plunge. 

It would be no easy thing to face tears, re- 
proaches, scenes — her brother might challenge 
him — at best he would lose his friends, his social 
life. He would have to take Camille to France, 
out of it all. 

And that would mean giving up his position 
and his work that he had been so fond of, so proud 
of, and living idly on his private income, until 
his father died and he could take Camille to the 
old place in the country. 

And possibly his father might disinherit him, 
leaving him with just the bare livelihood his own 
fortune represented. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


276 

Certainly he was a fool ; he contemplated throw- 
ing away his life for a woman of whom he knew 
nothing — who had charmed him he knew not how. 

He was angry with himself. 

Why had he not been able to love Sybilla ? 
Why had he ever thought that he loved Sybilla ? 

He laughed now to think that he had ever made 
such a mistake. 

Now it must be rectified; he must get himself 
free of Sybilla and all that she stood for; there 
was no other way, for it did not occur to him to 
offer Camille less than marriage; he wanted her 
for his own for always, and he could not tolerate 
the irritation of another woman in his life. 

That evening he spoke to Camille, lingering by 
her side when they met under the portico. 

“ This must be altered.” 

She looked at him without speaking; she was 
pale, and looked as if she had had tears recently 
in her eyes. 

She carried a small bundle, which he took from 
her and put under his arm. 

“ Must be altered ?” she asked dully. “ But 
nothing does alter ” 

“ This must.” 

“ No, it will go on — just as it is, until one is 
dead ! Mon Dieu ! This poverty !” 

“ Poverty — I spoke of love !” 

“ Let me go home,” she said almost roughly. 
“ We had the rent to pay — everything has gone 
for that. I am hungry — he is alone — without 
a fire.” 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


2 77 

He could have wept — have fallen at her feet; 
he stood before her trembling. 

11 Oh, Camille !” (How naturally her name 
came to his lips !) “You never told me !” 

“ Was I to beg ?” 

“ But now you must let me help you ” — he 
spoke with authority, almost sternly, and drew her 
arm through his. 

Camille was silent. 

As they crossed the great square where the dusk 
was already falling darkly, he began telling her 
of his love. 

The words fell over one another, almost inco- 
herently; he hardly knew what he was saying, his 
breath seemed impotently to beat the air in his 
attempt to give expression to his passion. 

He told her that he would look after her always, 
that never, never again should she know poverty 
or despair, want or sorrow. 

She listened in silence, leaning rather heavily 
on his arm. 

This muteness of hers impressed him through 
his passion as a reproach ; he checked himself 
suddenly, drawing his breath. 

“ I should not be saying this to you now.” 

He emphasised the last word, but she whispered 
back : 

“ No, you should not, Monsieur, be saying this 
to me at any time.” 

He wondered to himself if she had understood 
him, realised that he wanted to make her his 
wife, that he would fling aside everything for 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


278 

her; he thought that she had not understood; 
even to himself he had been incoherent. 

But now was not the time, with the wind in 
their faces, the dark about them and their feet 
stumbling on the rough cobbles. 

“ I must see you — I must speak to you, you 
must understand me,” said Anthony. 

He began to be angry with the barriers that 
hedged him in, to hate this time of waiting— it was 
monstrous that he could not help her — he thought 
of his warm, comfortab^ chambers — it was 
monstrous that he could not take her there, 
instead of trudging beside her through the cold 
to this miserable quarter where her poor home 
was situate. 

Wild with himself, he could find no words to 
say, and neither spoke until they reached her 
door. 

Then she put out her hand for the bundle. 

“ You may come up,” she said, lifting her heavy 
eyes, “ but be very quiet, please, Monsieur, I do 
not want my brother disturbed.” 

Anthony caught at this. 

“ But I want to see your brother,” he said 
eagerly, thinking that he would make his explana- 
tions to the cripple; that he could explain to him 
better than to Camille what he meant to do for 
both of them. 

But she put her arm across the door so that he 
could not pass. 

“ You must not see him,” she said hastily. 
“It is impossible — you do not know how ill he 
is; if you insist I cannot let you come up.” 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 279 

I insist on nothing — only let me come and 
speak to you, Camille. ” 

“ Promise me that you will be quiet, then, and 
not disturb my brother.” The light of the dirty 
lamp was on her face, and by it he saw her, for 
the first time, flush. “ He would not care for you 
to come here,” she added; “ we are not used to 
being so poor.” 

There was reluctance in her voice, in her manner, 
in her eyes. 

But she dropped her arm from the door and 
suffered him to follow her up the old, narrow, 
worn wooden stairs. 

On the second landing she stopped and opened 
the door in front of her; they came at once into 
a large carpetless room lit by a small lamp on 
the centre table. 

“ The little girl beneath,” said Camille, “ she 
is good, she comes up to look after my brother, 
and always there is the lamp lit for me.” 

Anthony hardly heard what she said ; the poverty 
of the place was so stark, so undisguised, that he 
felt ashamed that he had forced his presence on 
her ; he had hitherto always seen her in comfortable 
surroundings — but here was where she really 
belonged — to this abject, utter poverty. 

He stood amazed — and yet he had known. 

But he was so used to a certain mode of life, to 
expecting and accepting certain things as a matter 
of course, that he had never realised nor visualised 
any other states of existence. 

“ Monsieur is surprised ?” said Camille. 

1 I will end it,” answered Anthony. 


280 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


She lifted her shoulders. 

With a quick movement she took off the cardinal ; 
her hair had fallen on to her shoulders and was 
tumbled across her brow. 

She sat down by the table and began untying 
her bundle. 

The room was bare of anything save this table, 
a couple of chairs, a shelf of miserable crockery, 
a piece of narrow drugget hanging in front of 
the window, and a couch or long bench covered 
by one or two cotton blankets. 

There was a door at the back and a large fire- 
place, but it was empty, and the room bitterly 
cold. “ This is where she lives/ 1 said Anthony 
to himself, “ this is where she sleeps.” 

Camille had opened the parcel and taken out 
a white bodice shot with silver, skeins and reels 
of cotton and silk, and some braids of pearl 
trimming. 

“ Miss Dering’s wedding-gown,” she said, holding 
it up. 

The brilliant stuff, the lace, the pearls, looked 
strange enough in this room. 

“ I must finish it here or it will not be ready 
in time,” added Camille. 

“ It will never be needed,” said Anthony. 

She looked at him with absent eyes; her fingers 
continued to move over the white brocade. 

He stood the other side of the table looking at 
her, feeling as if he was choked by tears. 

“ Won’t you speak to me ?” he asked, so un- 
steadily that the words were almost unintelli- 
gible. 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


28 


Camille put down the work and sheltered her 
eyes with her thin cold hand. 

“ You cannot help/’ she said. 

“ I can — I must — I will help you and for ever.” 

Love I do not want,” she answered with sudden 
fierceness. 

“ I will not press you, I will wait ” — her words 
did not even discourage him, so inwardly sure 
was he of her. 

She dropped her hands and looked at him. 

“ Money would help — only money — what would 
you think, Monsieur, if I asked you for money?” 

He flushed and stammered, pulling open his 
greatcoat. 

Camille laughed like one in desperation and rose. 

He put on the bare table all the money he had 
with him — three pieces of gold and some more of 
silver. 

“ To-morrow,” he murmured, 11 you shall have 
all you require, Camille.” 

She moved the white bodice so that she could 
see the money. 

“ That is enough,” she answered, very faintly. 

“ Enough ?” said Anthony. “ All that I have 
is yours, Camille.” 

But he tried to restrain himself to calmness, 
almost coldness, knowing this was not the moment 
to trouble her, seeing that she was distracted, 
hardly mindful of his presence — wishful, he felt, 
for him to be gone. 

“ To-morrow ?” he said. 

She stared. 

“ I shall see you to-morrow ?” 


28 2 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


With a start she collected herself. 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“You want me to go now, Camille ? I can do 
nothing ?” 

She shook her dark head. 

“You have been very good,” she said mechanic- 
ally. “ I am most indebted, Monsieur.” 

“ You must not talk to me like that, Camille, 
my dear.” 

He took her hand, and she did not resist nor 
respond. 

“ Do you not understand — yet ?” he asked, 
earnestly looking at her. 

“You have been very good,” she repeated. 

He released her hand ; clearly he could not 
speak to her to-night. 

“ Good-bye, Camille.” 

She roused herself at that. 

“ Ah yes, my brother — if he was disturbed — you 

had better- Monsieur cannot find it amusing 

here, not at all.” 

As he looked back from the door, he saw her 
pick up and count the money he had given her. 

Strange was the cold, dark street that night 
to Anthony Redesdale, wonderful and new the 
moon floating in between the dark and tawny 
clouds. 

From this day on his whole life would be changed ; 
he would break with the old order and cut himself 
adrift with Camille. 

He could not think of the right or wrong of this 
resolution — it was something that had been decided 
apart from his own volition. 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


283 

Nor could he picture what his future life might be. 

Everything would be different — all that he had 
hitherto cared for would be lost, but he did not 
consider that. 

Camille Rochfort alone occupied his soul, his 
heart, his thoughts. 

Early the next morning he went to see Sybilla 
Dering. 

She met him in the little drawing-room, where 
the fire had not yet been lit. 

She was wearing a gown made by Camille, a 
thing of dark tabinet, and over her fair hair a cap 
of fine muslin, worked by the same fingers. 

Anthony noticed this, and thought how curious 
it was to think that in the next room Camille was 
now sitting, working at Sybilla’s wedding-gown — 
stitching the same bodice he had seen last night in 
her poor room, next his gold pieces. 

“You have come very early/’ said Sybilla 
gently. She glanced at his unpowdered hair and 
plain morning clothes. “ Did you want to speak 
to me ?” she added. 

He thought she spoke with an effort, and forced 
himself to notice her — for days she had been but 
a moving shadow. 

Now he looked almost cruelly at the face he 
had so lately thought the dearest in the world. 

It was a pale face to-day, one distracted and 
sad — the expression on it reminded him of the 
expression he had yesterday seen on the face of 
Camille Rochfort. This look confused, but did not 
soften him. He began to speak, almost mechanic- 
ally, and quite bluntly. 


284 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

It was as if someone else was speaking for him, 
someone whom he could not control. 

“ It has all been such a mistake, Miss Dering. 
I have been wrong to let it go so far — you must 
forgive me — lately I have been very troubled in 
my mind ” 

“ Please stop/’ said Sybilla. 

She rose and put out her hand, much as Camille 
had put out her hand yesterday to protect the 
door of her poor dwelling. 

“ There is no need to say any more,” she added. 
“ I dislike to hear it. And it is unnecessary, 
Mr. Redesdale.” 

“ Unnecessary ?” 

“ I know what you want to say.” 

Anthony stared; a new comprehension touched 
his self-absorption. 

Sybilla knew. 

Somehow that made everything different; he 
felt a pang of unutterable shame. 

“ Oh, Heaven,” he said bitterly, and broke off, 
turning away his face. 

“ You could not help it, I know,” said the girl 
drearily. “ People cannot ever help themselves, 
I suppose — it is a pity.” 

“ How did you guess ?” he cried; he had felt so 
secure in the world of his own creating where he 
and Camille Rochfort had been enclosed alone 
that he could not yet grasp the fact that Sybilla 
actually knew. 

“ Do you imagine,” she answered, “ that I am 
so dull as not to have seen ? You have had no 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 285 

eyes for me these past weeks. You have been like 
a man under an enchantment. ,, 

I think that is what has happened to me, 
Sybilla,” he said humbly. 

She looked at him through tears; she had never 
regarded him with any particular ardency, but 
she had been very glad to think of her coming 
marriage, and quite ready to attach herself ex- 
clusively to his fortunes. 

And now that she had finally lost him, her 
recent days of silent misery culminated in a feeling 
like despair. 

“ Who is it ?” she asked desperately. 11 Who is 
it?” 

So she did not know of Camille Rochfort — 
and he could not tell her. 

She bore his silence bravely ; her pride in- 
stinctively rallied to disguise her hurt. 

” I am sorry for you,” she said. “ You seem 
to me very unhappy, Mr. Redesdale.” 

“ I am distressed and humbled,” he answered. 
“ I do not know what to say nor how to act.” 

“ You must, sir, follow the dictates of your 
own heart.” 

She thought that rather a heroic thing to say, 
and her lips tightened. 

“ Your people,” said Anthony heavily. “ I 
must see your people.” 

“ I entreat you — no — it would only distress me 
vastly. Leave things as they are. If you have no 
explanations to give me, what can you offer them ?” 

“ What indeed ?” he wondered wearily. 


286 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

“ I shall tell them that I have decided not to 
marry you/’ added Sybilla. “ It is, sir, quite 
true. For some days past I had resolved 
that.” 

“ I can only ask your pardon,” murmured 
Anthony. He felt utterly humiliated; much of 
the joy had gone from his mad love — only the 
wrong and folly of it seemed present now. 

Sybilla waited, hoping that he might have some- 
thing further to say. 

She could make nothing of his abstracted and 
strange demeanour. 

And she was not clever enough to get the 
situation into her own hands, and too shy and too 
cold to make the scene emotional. 

So she said “ Good-bye ” with her gaze fixed 
on the fireless grate, and Anthony left her, feeling 
like a whipped dog. 

As he closed the door of the Queen’s Street 
mansion behind him, he knew that he was shutting 
himself out of his old life. 

Sybilla had behaved well, she had been very 
gentle ; he had accomplished his freedom with 
astonishing ease. 

But he knew that she would never forgive him, 
and that her world, which till lately had been his 
world, would never forgive him either. 

He stood by the road-posts a while, then turned 
slowly towards the Arcade, where he had so often 
met Camille Rochfort. 

And as he lingered there, trying to adjust his 
new liberty to the old order, the little sempstress 
came up behind him. 


CAMILLE ROCHFORT 


287 

“ They have turned me away/’ she said, and 
looked at him with fierce question in her eyes. 

At first, stupidly, he thought that Sybilla had 
discovered. 

“ Miss Dering told me there would be no more 
work — sent me away on the minute — what have 
you told her ? Why did you come to see her this 
morning, Monsieur ?” 

Now he understood. 

“ There is to be no marriage, that is what she 
meant, Camille. ” 

“No marriage ! And I was to have had work 
for another three weeks ! What have you done 1“ 

He laughed, joyous again, at the sight of her, 
at the thought of the future before her and him, 
his unreasoning love mounting high in his heart. 

“ Do you not understand ? I am free, Camille. 
You have no need to work any more. You will 
marry me.” 

She stepped back against the stained dark wall ; 
even in the shadow he saw that her face was 
flushed with passion. 

“ You speak like a fool,” she said, and flung 
to the air a fierce sentence in French. “Is it 
because I took your money that you think I am 
in love with you ?“ 

But he was still sure of her. 

“ I will make you happy/ 1 he answered swiftly. 
“ You do not know how happy ” 

“ Is it because of me that you do not marry 
Miss Dering ?” she demanded. 

“ Yes.” 

“Oh, Mon Dieu !” She broke into wild ex- 


288 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


clamations of anger. “Is it possible one could 
be so stupid ! So I lose my work, and you cannot 
help me any more ! This is what it means to 
deal with an Englishman ! Now we must starve, 
starve — yes, starve, I say !” 

“ What do you mean ?” he asked sternly. 
“ Were you using me ?” 

She flung up her head. 

“I let you help me, yes — you were interested, 
you admired, and I was desperate — it was for 
him. I never thought you would do this ! Dieu ! 
How could I have dreamt of such folly ! I could 
have managed if you had not been a fool ” 

“ Camille, why do you talk like this ? I love 
you beyond everything. Why will you not marry 
me ?” 

“ Because I love someone else,” she said furi- 
ously; she snapped her fingers in his face; 
“ because that man I have up there, and for 
whom I work, and lie, and scheme, is my husband. 
Do you hear ? My husband. And you have 
spoilt everything ” 

She swept together the ends of her shabby 
cardinal, and turned away across Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields. 


XII.— PEARLS 


No. 891 . — A small crucifix of ebony with portion of 
a rosary with silver chain and sandal wood beads . 
Italian , early eighteenth century. 

Pia della Testanegra lay in her great carved bed 
and looked between the drawn curtains at a por- 
trait of herself painted on the wall. 

The figure was a portion of a fresco of flat pale 
colours showing nymphs and unicorns, cupids and 
satyrs intertwined with arabesques and delicate 
wreaths of roses ; it ran round the big chamber in 
lines of grace and beauty. The Contessa Pia raised 
herself a little in the bed in order to obtain a better 
view of the likeness of herself which was in the cen- 
tre of the wall at the foot of the bed and full in the 
light of the big window to the left which looked on 
to the lake. 

It was the representation of a young woman with 
a pointed, beautiful pale face, dark eyes and 
bleached fair hair, gathered into elaborate ringlets 
on the top of her delicate head. 

She wore a lemon-coloured gown, and held high 
a golden salver piled with dusky purple grapes. 

The Contessa Pia stared at the fair painted face 
with an impassive look. 

The picture was but a faint reflection of what the 
289 19 


290 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


original had been; but the woman’s sunken eyes 
were calm. 

Her beauty had been over so long ago that she 
had ceased to regret the loss. 

It was sixty years since the fresco had been 
painted, fifty years since her radiant loveliness had 
begun to wane. 

And now she was so old that her age had become 
a legend. 

They said she was a hundred, so far back did her 
story go — but no one knew exactly because all her 
contemporaries were dead. 

And now she was dying in this lonely castle out- 
side Rome, the gift of her third husband. 

Dying penitent and blessed by the Holy Church. 

She leant back on the cushions and folded her 
hands on the high embroidered sheets. 

Her dim eyes turned to the view from the window 
— a great expanse of stormy lake, grey beneath a 
great sky, sloping woods of pine on the opposite 
distant bank, and the heavy lines of the Certosa 
which stood straightly opposite the castle with the 
sweep of lake between. 

Pia had had many residences to choose from 
when she finally retired from the world, and every- 
one wondered why she had chosen this ancient 
castle set on the edge of the brooding lake and shut 
away from Rome and the Campagna by the Saline 
Hills. But she had been obstinate about her 
choice, as she had been obstinate in the renuncia- 
tion of all the titles and honours left her by her 
four husbands, and would be called only by her 
own name, Pia della Testanegra. 


PEARLS 


291 


Perhaps she had no reason for either caprice: if 
she had few cared to ask it now. 

She was quite forgotten by the great world she 
had once dominated. Another generation had 
taken the places of her friends and lovers; those 
she remembered as children were now old men 
and women; there was no human being left in 
whom she took any interest. 

For years she had seen no one but the brethren 
from the Certosa opposite — the good monks who 
were so busily engaged in saving her soul; for the 
Contessa, having tasted all the perilous sweets of 
earth, did not intend to forgo the holy joys of 
Heaven. 

Nor did the Certosini intend to forgo the build- 
ing of the new church which was to be Pia’s price 
for absolution. 

They had to be very patient, for she was cunning 
and avaricious, and would not part with anything 
while she lived ; but she had promised them all at 
her death, and the plans for the new church were 
already drawn, and the Prior had seen many an 
architect and artist. 

Now at last the valiant old woman had confessed 
defeat. 

She could fight no more against death, and, lest 
he should take her unawares, she had that morning 
signed a deed conveying all her property to the 
Certosini. 

All except her jewels — these she could not bring 
herself to part with. 

They were the only things she still loved — the 
price and symbol of her long-vanished beauty — the 


292 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


homage, the adoration of her lovers, all her mem- 
ories, splendid and tender, all her pride and tri- 
umph — these things she saw in her jewels. 

And while she could draw a breath she would not 
part with them. 

She would have ordered them to be buried with 
her, but she knew there was no one whom she could 
trust. 

As she looked out at the distant lines of the 
Certosa, she drew her thin lips back off her tooth- 
less gums in a slow smile. 

The Prior wanted the jewels, and was angry 
because they had not been promised with the other 
property ; he or one of the brethren would be at her 
side presently, urging her to part with her treasures. 
The greed of the monks amused the withered heart 
of the old woman. 

In her day she had been greedy also; she could 
sympathise with lust for gain ; her favours she had 
once sold as high as the monks were now selling 
theirs. 

She sucked her lips at the thought, and felt a 
faint impatience that those times were past, and 
that she was now old. 

But the feeling quickly passed, and she lay tran- 
quilly watching the distant Certosa and nodding 
her palsied head at it as if she defied the Prior and 
all the brethren. 

The door was timidly opened, and Stefanina en- 
tered. 

She was always frightened at this great room with 
the huge window looking on to the lake, the black 
chests and chairs against the light-painted walls, 


PEARLS 


293 


the four-poster bed with the heavy curtains of blue 
Venetian velvet, and the old, old woman sunk into 
her pillows. 

The Contessa turned and looked at the girl ; her 
own children had died long ago ; Stefanina was her 
brother’s grandchild. 

Pia had hardly known of her existence ; but the 
girl’s mother had heard that the Contessa ap- 
proached her end, and Stefanina had been sent to 
wait on her grand-aunt, and to see if her grace 
and youth could not charm some of the treasures 
of the old castle into the fair young hands of 
this last of the Testanegra, who was poor and 
as fond of the world as ever her grand-aunt had 
been. 

The Contessa had suffered her to come ; she knew 
the object of mother and daughter, and it amused 
her as the greed of the monks amused her. 

“ You are alone,” said Stefanina, treading softly 
to the bedside — “ why are you always alone ? It 
is not right.” 

The old woman glanced at the Certosa and then 
at the girl. 

She smiled. 

Stefanina flushed. 

She was desperately ill at ease with the Contessa, 
desperately lonely and frightened in the dreary, 
half-empty castle. 

She had very little hope of gaining anything by 
her self-imposed visit, and a great terror of seeing 
this awful old woman die. 

But she controlled her longing to fly back to 
Rome because of the vexation and disappointment 


294 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

of her mother, which she knew she would have to 
face if she abandoned her post. 

And at the bottom of her own heart was a half 
fierce, half timid resolution not to let these monks 
have everything — not to allow them the entire 
treasure when a little would mean so much to her 
poor fortunes. 

She stood, hesitant, at the bedside* 

The grey light from the window touched her with 
a cold illumination. 

“ You should not be alone,” she repeated un- 
easily. “ Will you not have the doctor or old 
Philomela ?” 

“ Neither,” said the Contessa. 

“ Then I will sit with you.” 

“ As you please, Stefanina.” 

And the old woman smiled again. 

The girl seated herself on the bed step, and 
clasped her hands in her lap. 

She was not beautiful as Pia had been, but she 
was graceful, brown-haired, brown-eyed, clear- 
skinned and very young. 

Something like a flower of early spring was 
Stefanina, a white hyacinth or a snowdrop, with her 
air of remote cool fragrance. 

But in her heart she was a true Testanegra, am- 
bitious, ardent, passionate. 

The Contessa eyed her; then, stretching out a 
thin, mottled hand, touched her shoulder. 

“ Would you like to see my jewels ?” she whis- 
pered hoarsely. 

The girl’s eyes flashed as if she had heard the 
voice of a lover. 


PEARLS 


295 


“ You would ?" 

“ Ah, if I might !" 

The old woman drew a small key from under her 
pillow. 

“ The third drawer in the black bureau/' she 
muttered. 

Stefanina trembled. 

She took the key and hastened to the great bureau 
at the end of the room. 

“ It is nothing much/' said Pia. 

She looked at the Certosa and dragged herself up 
in bed. 

Stefanina, opening the drawer, saw several plain 
caskets. 

“ Bring them," commanded Pia. 

The girl carried the caskets, two or three at a 
time, and placed them on the thick blue and gold 
cover that lay smoothly over Pia's shrunken limbs. 

The old woman sat upright with sudden strength ; 
her shoulders were covered by a scarf of silver and 
lace; lace was round her head and fastened under 
her chin. 

Her face, fleshless, wrinkled and colourless, with 
the powerful features prominent and sharp, was like 
a grotesque carved out of stained ivory. 

She took from a thin chain round her neck a 
master key of filigre, and opened rapidly one casket 
after another. 

Her swollen- veined, hard hands, shaking and 
twitching, hurriedly cast the contents of each case 
on to the bed. 

“ Nothing much," she muttered. “ As you see, 
nothing much." 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


296 

She shook her head at Stefanina. 

“ Only pearls/’ she jerked out. 

“ Pearls !” gasped the girl. 

They covered the bed from one side to another; 
mostly chains and necklets, with a few brooches and 
earrings, all very simply set, and of every size, shape 
and kind, rope on rope, cluster on cluster, soft, lus- 
trous and gleaming. 

“ I never cared for anything but pearls,” said 
Pia, grinning. 

“ Pearls !” exclaimed Stefanina again; she hung 
over the bed, breathless. 

On the hideous old face and the soft young face 
was the same look of absorbed eagerness, the look 
of woman gazing at her adornment. 

“ Everyone gave me pearls,” muttered the Con- 
tessa. “ I have the finest pearls in Italy. I used 
to have the madness for pearls — pearls round my 
ankles when I was abed, child, a cross of pearls 
hidden in my bosom — pearls — always pearls 1” 

Stefanina took up some of the chains and braids 
and let them slip through her fingers; the feel of 
them, their softness and lightness, gave her exqui- 
site pleasure. 

She imagined herself arrayed in them, and shud- 
dered with excitement. 

“ They must not be sold,” added Pia. ” No — 
they must be left as they are — to adorn the Ma- 
donna.” 

She blinked maliciously at the girl. 

“ Will they not look well on the new statue of the 
Madonna, baby, in the new church of the Cer- 
tosini ?” 


PEARLS 


297 

“ You — you have given them to the monks ?” 
asked Stefanina faintly. 

" Not yet.” 

But you will do so ?” 

The old woman nodded. 

“ To whom else, child ?” 

Stefanina trembled. 

“ The Madonna does not need them.” 

tl Oh, she will be very pleased,” returned the old 
woman sharply. “ And in return she will keep me 
a snug place in Paradise.” 

“ The monks have had so much,” murmured 
Stefanina. 

‘ ‘ They must have all . I have been very wicked — 
wicked,” she repeated the word with a chuckle. 
“ And now I must pay.” 

The girl was silent with longing and mortifi- 
cation. 

Pia looked at her with sudden sharpness. 

“ You would like them ? Earn them, then, wring 
them out of men like I did. Make men love you 
so that they will buy a kiss with this.” She held 
up a string of yellow pearls. “You start as I 
started — a Testanegra — young — poor. But no, 
you have not got it ” 

She paused, struggling with her breath. 

“ No man would go mad for you,” she added 
viciously. 

Stefanina flushed, and eyed the pearls. 

“ You have no power.” 

Stefanina bit her lip. 

“ If you cannot get your spoils for yourself,” 


298 SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

concluded the Contessa, “ you shall have none of 
mine.” 

“ You think I am a fool, Contessa,” said the girl 
quietly. 

“Yes. I have no kindness for your sort of 
woman.” 

“ I am not beautiful, as you were,” answered 
Stefanina. 

“ No,” grinned Pia. 

“ But I might do something for myself,” added 
Stefanina. 

The old woman glanced over the long-limbed 
slight figure in the green gown, at the delicate, 
rather expressionless face. 

“ You will never do anything,” she snapped, and 
dropped back on her pillows. 

Stefanina bent her head. 

“ Will you give me one of these necklets — for my 
mother ?” she asked meekly. “ To have as a re- 
membrance.” 

“ No.” 

The girl's long brown eyes gleamed; she folded 
her hands in her lap. 

The old woman seemed to doze, her hands out- 
spread over the coverlet and across the masses of 
pearls. 

Stefanina looked out of the window and across 
the stormy waters of the lake to the distant build- 
ing of the Certosa. 

The silence of a few moments passed in the big 
chamber. 

Then Philomela, the old, old waiting-woman who 
remembered Pia in her glory, entered. 


PEARLS 


299 


“ One of the Certosini to see the Contessa.” 

Pia opened her eyes immediately; she liked the 
attentions of the monks. 

She knew they came for her sole remaining poses- 
sions, the pearls, and the sense of power pleased her. 

Stefanina made no movement to go; the Con- 
tessa seemed to have forgotten her. 

Philomela shrieked on seeing the pearls, and 
swept them into a heap with clutching fingers, but 
the monk was already in the room, and had seen 
them. 

Pia smiled as he uttered his blessing, for his eyes 
were on the pearls. 

“ You are a new face/’ she said. 

“ Brother Florio,” said the monk. “ Brother 
Roberts was sick, Signora Contessa.” 

This was not true; the monk had been sent be- 
cause the Prior believed in his address and elo- 
quence ; they had heard that a relative of the Con- 
tessa was at the castle, and had become alarmed, for 
fear they should, after all, lose some of the spoils of 
Pia della Testanegra. 

“ You have come for the jewels,” sneered the old 
Contessa. 

“ I have come to tell you your duty,” replied the 
monk. 

Pia laughed. 

“ Have you not enough ?” 

” Are you not penitent ?” he demanded sternly, 
approaching the bed. 

“ You have all,” she said, goading him. 

Stefanina looked at the monk ; he was young, and 
his face was dark above his white habit. 


300 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 

“ Leave me, child, ” said the Contessa; “ the holy 
monk wishes to speak to me.” 

Stefanina rose. 

As she passed the monk her gown brushed his 
habit — very lightly. 

“ She will give you the pearls,’ ’ she whispered, 
“ but they belong to me.” 

Brother Florio flushed. 

“ What is that ?” shrieked the Contessa. 

The monk looked at the girl. 

But Stefanina left the room. 

She wandered out of the castle and on to the 
sloping sides of the lake. 

The solitude made her shiver. 

It was autumn, and the trees almost bare, only 
the distant chestnuts behind the Certosa still glowed 
with colour. 

The heavy, close-packed sky threatened rain ; the 
air was warm and close. 

Stefanina wandered along the narrow paths worn 
in the banks. 

The sharp thorns of the low acacia bushes caught 
her gown, which was ruffled by the breeze from the 
lake. 

Her hair was blown across her face and shoulders ; 
a colour came into her face. 

She turned back towards the entrance to the 
castle and waited. 

When Brother Florio left the Contessa and came 
down to the lake for his boat, he found Stefanina in 
his path. 

She said nothing. 


PEARLS 


301 

But she looked at him, putting back the long ten- 
drils of hair from her long eyes. 

The monk stopped. 

What did you mean by saying the pearls were 
yours ?” he asked. 

Did she promise them to you ?” 

“ To the Holy Church.” 

“ Ah I” 

But she will not give them up till she is dead.” 

“ They are mine.” 

” How yours ?” 

He regarded her narrowly. 

“ Yes, look at me,” said Stefanina. 

“ I am looking.” 

** What do you see ?” 

Again the monk flushed. 

“ A woman,” he answered sternly. 

“ More than that,” said the girl. “ A young, a 
fair woman.” 

She came nearer. 

“ Would not the pearls suit me better than the 
Madonna ?” 

Don Florio looked at her intently — indeed, she 
forced him to look at her — as he had perhaps looked 
at no human being, certainly at no woman before. 
Her fine lineaments, the blown-back wave of her 
hair and gown against the background of the lake 
and the bare bushes disturbed the monk. 

He put his hand to his waist, where hung a small 
ebony crucifix on a rosary of ebony and silver beads. 

Stefanina noticed the gesture. 

“ The crucifix for you and the pearls for me,” she 
said. 


302 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


She held out her soft warm hand and put it on 
his, which was cold and thin, and had never known 
a woman’s touch before. 

“ You blaspheme bitterly,” he said. 

Stefanina laughed in a way that made his words 
seem ridiculous. 

” But you will give me the pearls ?” 

Her hand tightened on his. 

” The pearls of the Contessa !” cried the monk, 
amazed and like one roused from speechless con- 
fession. “ Do you not see that I am one of the 
Certosini ?” 

“ But a man,” smiled Stefanina. 

“ The boat waits,” said Don Florio. 

He drew his hand abruptly from hers and turned 
away down the winding path that led to the edge 
of the gloomy lake. 

The girl watched him, but he never looked back. 
She returned to the castle and to the Contessa ’s bed- 
chamber. 

The old woman was asleep, the pearls piled on 
the coverlet. 

The ancient Philomela sat watching them with 
tireless eyes. 

” Philomela,” said Stefanina gently, “ do you 
think I am a fool ?” 

“ I think you are not clever enough to get the 
pearls of my mistress,” answered the old waiting- 
woman. ” They are safely in the keeping of the 
Holy Church, Signorina, and my mistress’s soul 
will soon be safe in Heaven.” 

The girl looked at the ugly sunken face of the 
sleeping woman. 


PEARLS 


30 3 

u Was she so very beautiful ?” she asked curi- 
ously and doubtfully. 

Philomela pointed a crooked finger at the lovely 
heap of pearls. 

“ Beautiful enough to win that, and houses and 
lands — and four husbands, Signorina.” 

“ Beautiful enough and clever enough,” said 
Stefanina. 

“ Clever ?” laughed Philomela. “ Yes, she was 
very clever indeed.” 

” Why did not the monk take the pearls ?” asked 
Stefanina. 

“ She will never let them go till she is quite dead,” 
nodded the old woman. “ Then the Church will 
have them, and they will go to the new statue of the 
Madonna.” 

“ There are too many for her to wear at once,” 
said Stefanina dreamily. 

“ The others will be locked away in a scented 
chest of holy wood. Don Florio told us the statue 
would be taken from the likeness of the Contessa 
in the fresco; it will be wax, life-size and painted, 
and will have gold dust in the hair — it will stand 
on a velvet altar cloth and wear the Contessa’s most 
gorgeous robes and the pearls. So the Signora can 
look from Paradise and see a likeness of herself in 
the new church. And so, the monk says, she will 
feel that she has not lost the pearls she could not 
take to Heaven.” 

“ He is cunning, that monk,” said Stefanina 
thoughtfully. 

After this the days grew chilly, and a copper pan 


304 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


of charcoal was brought into the chamber of the 
dying woman. 

She hardly ever spoke now, and never raised her 
head from the great soft pillow. 

A shawl of white wool took the place of that of 
silver lace. 

She seemed unconscious even when awake, and 
what little she muttered could be understood by 
none but Philomela, who declared that her words 
referred to the splendid orgies of the past. 

She was always in the room now, this old Philo- 
mela, always watching her mistress and watching 
the pearls. 

Stefanina came in and out of the room in her 
plain green gown and a little tippet of fox fur over 
her shoulders, for it was very cold now in the great 
bare, empty castle. 

And Don Florio came to and fro from the Cer- 
tosa. Since he had been so successful the Prior 
sent him and no other. 

He tried never to look at Stefanina, and she saw 
that he was troubled when in her presence. She 
passed him often in the corridors; she never spoke 
to him, but she looked, and smiled, and once she 
laughed. 

She knew that Don Florio was comparing her 
in his mind with the Madonnas in the Certosa and 
the peasant girls who lived in the villages round the 
lake. 

These and the old Contessa and the old waiting- 
woman were the only women he had seen since he 
could remember, for he had been brought to the 
Certosa a little boy, and had never left it, save for a 


PEARLS 


305 

few hours — never been further than the castle across 
the lake. 

Stefanina did not know this ; but she knew that 
she was different both from the Madonnas and the 
peasant girls, and that the young monk had noticed 
this difference. 

And was disturbed. 

Long the Contessa lingered ; daily Stefanina saw 
the monk, who came constantly to the castle that 
he might be there when the old woman died, and 
take the pearls away. 

While she lived her feebleness defied him to touch 
them. 

“ Not yours yet,” she would whisper. “ And 
perhaps they never will be, eh ?” 

For she still loved to withhold her last gift. 
Once, when she had a little more strength, she told 
Philomela as much. 

“ If I give him the pearls he will never come again, 
and I shall lack prayers, and who knows,” she added, 
blinking at the pale girl by the bedside, “ but that 
I may give them to Stefanina after all — after all ?” 

Philomela laughed. 

Stefanina also knew that it was a gibe. 

That night the patient monk stayed late, watch- 
ing and praying. 

The Contessa had long since confessed and re- 
ceived the Viaticum. 

Still she lingered. 

The doctor said she would not die yet, no, not 
for several days perhaps. 

Weary and disheartened the monk left the bed- 
chamber where the dozing Philomela kept a still 

20 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


306 

watchful eye on the pearls heaped over her mis- 
tress’s coverlet. 

In the long, lonely and cold corridor, lit only by 
an ancient lamp which dimly showed the damp, 
discoloured, peeling, painted walls, he met Stefa- 
nina. 

She wore a gown of rose-coloured and white bro- 
cade which she had found in the Contessa’s ward- 
robe; it was heavy with ancient perfume. 

Her hair was dressed high in the manner of Pia’s 
locks in the fresco ; her little fingers only just showed 
beneath the rich heavy stuff of her tight sleeves, 
across her slender bust the gown was cut straightly 
with a thick band of gold. 

Don Florio looked, turned away his eyes, and 
looked again. 

Stefanina bent slightly towards him as he 
passed; she was under the lamp, and in the rays 
of it gleamed softly from head to foot in the warm 
shadows. 

“ Have you got the pearls ?” she asked. 

“ I am very tired,” said the monk wearily — “ very 
tired.” 

“ The pearls are mine,” said Stefanina. “ You 
know that ” 

He made a movement as if to pass her, then 
paused. 

“ Why ?” he asked. 

“ Because they belong to the world, and I am of 
the world.” 

Her lustrous eyes looked deep into his. 

“You know nothing of the world, do you ?” she 
asked softly. 

He stood silent, with bent head. 


PEARLS 


307 


“ Nothing of beauty and joy, nothing of what my 
aunt really was ?” 

“ That knowledge is not for us,” he answered 
slowly. 

“ The pearls are not for you.” 

“ Signorina, the Contessa gives them to the 
Church in expiation of her sins.” 

“ They are my heritage.” 

“ She will not give them to you, Signorina.” 

“ But you will, Don Florio.” 

“ I ?” 

Stefanina smiled. 

“ Will you not ?” 

He wavered, stood bewildered, tortured. 

“ Come,” said Stefanina. 

She beckoned to him and turned towards the 
Contessa’s chamber. 

With weak feet he followed her. 

Softly she entered. 

A single oil lamp burnt on the little table by the 
bedside; old Philomela was asleep in the deep arm- 
chair beside it — uncovered, gleaming from one end 
of the bed to the other, were the pearls. 

Stefanina and the monk stood side by side looking 
at them. 

Neither had any memories — yet as they gazed 
each felt the strange pangs of memory. 

The girl was thinking of all that she meant to 
enjoy — all the vague rosy future that was before 
her — the monk was thinking of all that he had 
forgone. 

Neither had any reality on which to base their 
dreams, which were wonderful and formless and 
drawn from their own souls. 


SHADOWS OF YESTERDAY 


308 

Stefanina bent forward and put her hands over 
the pearls. 

The rich dress brushed against the rough habit 
of the monk. 

With fascinated eyes he watched her. She was 
all shining in the light of the solitary little lamp — 
all shining, her hair, her eyes, her gown. 

Visions of things he had never seen filled the 
monk’s brain. 

Dancing, and soft colours, and things made of 
gold, diamonds in the hair of women, bare limbs 
and wine goblets, music and song — festival beneath 
the trees and beneath the moon. 

What did he know of these things — why should 
he think of them ? 

Frightened at himself, he turned with a violent 
movement. 

The crucifix on his rosary caught on the heavy 
post of the bed, and was snapped off and fell on the 
heap of pearls. 

Stefanina looked up. 

Her glowing glance met the wild glance of the 
monk. 

“ Can you defy me any more ?” she said. 

He moved his lips, but did not speak. 

Stefanina bent again over the bed; she looked 
from the pearls to the old woman. 

“ Ah, Don Florio,” she said softly, “ the Con- 
tessa is dead.” 

“ Dead?” 

She laid her fresh cheek above the withered 
breast; she put her fair hand above the shrivelled 
lips. 


PEARLS 


309 

“ Dead — and cold — the doctor knew so little 
after all.” 

“ Wake the woman,” said the monk hoarsely; he 
stared at the dead as a child might stare. 

Philomela sat with her head fallen forward and 
her hands dropped in her lap ; she looked as if she, 
too, was dead. 

Stefanina made no effort to rouse her ; she turned 
to the monk and put her arm about his shoulder. 

“ The pearls are mine ?” she whispered with her 
lips very close to his ear. 

He shuddered under her touch. 

“ Are they not mine ?” 

He looked at her desperately; his young face was 
distorted. 

“ Take them,” he said — “ take them, let me go ” 
— he muttered some words of supplication. 

Stefanina loosened her arm at once. 

Don Florio fled from the chamber and the castle, 
and took the boat across the black lake to the quiet 
Certosa to tell the Prior that he had lost the pearls 
after all — after all — and to do penance for certain 
wild thoughts and wicked desires. 

Stefanina gathered up the pearls by the armful 
from the brocade that covered the dead woman. 
She smiled into the old, old face of the Contessa. 

“ Am I such a fool, great-aunt ? I have won 
from one man what it took you years to win from 
many.” 


BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND. 






















































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